Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s hard to see, the world down here too bright, too blinding. White walls, white floor, white ceiling, all blurring into one, hard and cold and endless.

Jimin stumbles forward, the air sharp in his throat, his breathing ragged and loud. Too loud. It echoes down the corridor, bounces off every surface, announcing his presence to everyone who might be around. 

His bare feet slap against the tiles just as loudly, each step burning, the skin too soft, unused to friction, unused to gravity. He has never used these legs for something like this – running. The cold of the tiles seeps into the soles of his feet, climbs up his legs, into his knees, his spine…

He slips on a patch of water dripping from his own hair that’s plastered to his back and chest in wet strands, and just about catches himself on the tiled wall. 

An alarm howls up somewhere inside the building. 

They’ve realized he’s gone.

His heartbeat thunders in his ears, the corridor stretching out in front of him, endless and sterile, but he knows exactly where it ends. He mapped it in his mind a hundred times while floating in silence in his tank. Thirty-two steps to the junction. Ten more to the service hatch.

His way out.

Something shifts in the air, a draft of wind grazing his wet skin, followed by the dull thud of boots hitting the tile. One pair, then another, then a third. Heavy soles pounding, picking up speed, coming closer.

His pulse spikes. His ears strain, counting the steps, judging the distance. He can hear the weight of their gear, the rustling of a comm, and then a familiar voice.

‘Get him back here.’ 

He forces his legs to move faster, finally reaches the junction, rounds the corner—and stumbles to a halt.

Shit. He’s been too focused on what’s going on behind him that he didn’t pay attention to what’s in front. 

His throat squeezing around his thundering heartbeat as he comes face to face with three guards in black uniforms, the ReZonyx logo printed across their chests in neon lettering. 

“On the ground!” One of them shouts while another raises a rifle, the third already aiming at him.

There’s no way past them, and the footsteps behind Jimin are getting louder, heavier. Closing in.

The air shifts. It reeks of tranquilizer – metallic and sweet, like rotten fruit. He knows that smell well. And he knows what it does, how it drags him under.

“I said on the ground!”

A dart whistles through the air.

Jimin twists sideways, stumbling. The needle shoots past his shoulder, missing him by just an inch, and shatters against the wall.

His heart lurches. Instinct kicks in.

He backs into the wall, fingers curling against the cold tile. 

His lips part. His breath draws in.

“Shit—He’s gonna sing!” One of the guards spins, shoving the others back. “We’re not wearing protection! Get out of here!”

It takes only a heartbeat for the melody to form in his throat. 

It starts soft, barely audible over the alarm in the distance. But the sound blooms fast, splits the air like pressure dropping during a storm. The tile hums under his feet. The metal in the walls vibrates. Light stutters.

“Boss, we need to–”

The first guard drops his rifle, hands clapping over his ears. The second one backs away, blood trickling from his nose before his knees buckle and he crumples. The third tries to run but doesn’t make it far before he collapses too.

Once Jimin’s song fades, the corridor falls into complete silence. Even the footsteps behind him have gone.

They must have forgotten their protection too.

His chest heaves from exertion, and for a fleeting moment he almost feels sorry for himself—for missing the sight of the guards behind him dying.

He wonders if he was among them.

He wets his lips. 

Then he tears his gaze away from the bodies and runs. 

The apartment reeks of mold and old citrus, but at least the door locks. That's more than he could say for the last two places, which is why he’s still here, in this city, when he should’ve long moved on. Subconsciously his body enjoys this unfamiliar sense of safety, all because of a working lock. 

A busted fan wheezes in the corner, doing nothing to move the thick air around. Jimin lies on the bare mattress, staring at the ceiling, watching the pulse of neon pink and blue and green dance across the stained wall from where it cuts through the cracked blinds.

He probably hasn't moved in hours. Doesn’t plan to.

The city drones outside: engines, the irregular beat of music, street vendors yelling through broken speakers, the distant buzz of an alarm. Somewhere nearby, something explodes. Probably a power line. The man across the hall screams again, and as always Jimin can’t tell if it’s pain or pleasure. Maybe both.

He doesn’t care either way. Doesn’t really care about anything, except for finding what he’s looking for. 

He eats when he remembers. Drinks when his lips crack. Mostly, he just stares at the ceiling, lost in static, waiting, listening. Waiting. Listening. Waiting—

And sometimes, when the noise fades enough and the haze lifts, he hears it. Not with his ears, but deeper. Somewhere inside.

A low pull in his gut. The phantom memory of soft waves, cool water against his skin.

That’s when he usually closes his eyes and tries to remember.

A home he doesn’t really know anymore, only the feel of it. Deep. Wide. Infinite.

Sometimes he thinks he’s getting closer. When the feeling tightens in his chest, like a thread pulling him forward. But it never lasts. The moment he thinks he’s near, it slips away again. 

Sometimes he asks people about it, asks for directions. 

They usually laugh at him. 

“The sea? Long gone,” some say. “Corporates drained it dry years ago.” 

“Poison,” say others. “Mutated. Just breathing the air boils your lungs to mush.” 

"Frozen solid, locked under miles of ice," is another story he's heard several times, some folks claiming you can hear dead sailors knocking from under the ice when the wind’s just right.

Some – especially the younger ones – don’t even believe it ever existed. They talk about the sea like it’s a bygone story. A myth. 

But Jimin knows better.

He’s been there. He was born in it. Lived in it. 

He was it. 

It's just—whenever he tries to hold on to the faintest of memories, they collapse, merge into different memories, and he’s back in the tank. Back in the lab. Glass all around. Cables in his sky. Silence. Empty. Sterile. Wrong. 

So wrong, so different from his home. 

He knows it's still there. 

They tell him the sea is a lie. But he knows it’s not. And he’ll find it again.

Even if it’s ruined. 

Because it’s all he has left. 

He must have fallen asleep, because when he opens his eyes, the light has changed.

No neon anymore, just a dull, washed-out gray.

His eyelids are heavy, and he blinks slowly, feeling sweaty and a little disoriented, the way you feel waking up from a dream you don’t remember but can’t quite shake. The fan still rattles uselessly in the corner, the noise outside different from last night, too. Not necessarily quieter, just flatter.

He pushes himself into a sitting position, his muscles aching from the hard mattress, his mouth dry, tongue like sandpaper, stomach hollow. He gets up, his feet dragging as he crosses the room toward the kitchenette to check the fridge even though he already knows it’s empty. 

Still, he opens it, just in case.

Nothing.

He checks the cabinet next. Same story.

No food. No coffee. Just a chipped mug and an expired stim-packet rolling around in the back that’s most likely bone dry by now. 

He stares at the empty shelves, irritated that this human body needs so many things. In his siren form, he never had to concern himself much with eating or drinking or sleeping such an extensive amount.

With a sigh, he turns and grabs the nearest hoodie, pulling it on as he crosses the cramped room, stepping over the fan’s power cord. At the door, he takes the half-face respirator mask from its hook before slipping outside.

The air in the dark hallway is stale, reeking of piss and cheap liquor.

Outside, it’s no better.

The daylight makes the rot easier to see. Cracks splitting the pavement like veins, rust bleeding down the sides of buildings, trash sticking to the gutters in thick clumps, never cleaned, just layered over. Steam curls from sewer grates, thick and sour, while billboards blink above, their screens glitching, advertising pills for sleep, for sex, for silence.

The world feels loud and full and dry and angry, and Jimin is too human now to let it slide off of him. 

Everything sticks. The filth. The weight of being.

He hasn’t taken his true form in weeks. And his body yearns for it, feels the need to cleanse itself, to flush out the static and the wrongness.

But it’s impossible without water.

He adjusts his respirator – he bought it from a street vendor a while ago, who definitely saw his desperation and charged him double for it. Still, it filters the air enough to keep the city from crawling into his lungs, and – more importantly – it keeps his face covered.

He’d cut his hair short and dyed it black right after the escape. A quick, messy attempt at hiding, and he has stuck with it ever since.

Now, as he hurries down the street, he catches a glimpse of his reflection in a shop window—and with it, a flash of soft pink.

His roots are already showing again.

With a quiet curse, he pulls his hood up, tugging it low over his forehead.

Hopefully, the money he has left will be enough for another box of hair dye. He can’t afford to be recognized. Not even for a second. They’re still searching for him. He can feel them, like breath on the back of his neck.

He quickens his steps, blending into the blur of bodies on the move, just another shadow in the crowd. 

People walk fast. Heads down. Collars up. Masks on. No one talks.

Since Jimin never stays in one place for long, he doesn’t know anyone – not that he would trust any human to begin with – and gets by on whatever work he can find. Odd jobs that pay just enough to cover rent and keep him alive. 

On some days he works at junkyards, lifting heavy scrap and broken machines until his back feels like it’s splitting. On other days he sorts through piles of old tech to find parts he can sell, like memory chips or modified implants. Every now and then, he takes shifts in underground data centers – illegal places that run stolen AI programs or pirate corporate files, where the only rule is never to ask where the data’s going. 

All these jobs are usually paid in cash or ration cards. Untraceable, and enough for him to get by. Enough to eat, to rent a room, to keep moving.

But barely enough to live.

He’s reminded of that again as he stands in the convenience store, staring at the shelf of box dye. There is only one left that’s black, overpriced for how cheap it looks – cardboard soft at the corners, the sealing sticker half torn – but he grabs it anyway. He can’t be picky with pink roots on full display.

When he reaches the food aisle, he grabs a bag of instant noodles and a bottle of water. He pauses at the row of energy drinks and almost reaches for one before his eyes flick to the price. No chance. The plain water will have to do. 

He drops everything on the counter. Keeps his hood up, mask on, gaze low as the clerk scans and bags his stuff wordlessly. Then he slides over some cash, before he walks out with the plastic bag crinkling in his hand and his stomach growling. 

That night, Jimin takes a cleaning shift at an underground fight club on the far edge of the city – farther from his apartment than he’s comfortable with, but nothing else has come through, and he really needs the money. 

He's handed a mop, a bucket, and then sent into the ring, where the floor is sticky with blood, sweat, and something sharp and chemical that burns in the back of his throat.

He should’ve brought his respirator. Doing physical work in it usually makes him dizzy and sick, so tonight he settled for a standard medical mask – enough to hide his face, and, he hoped, enough to fight the sting of the cleaning fumes – but he’s regretting that now.

The thin mask does nothing to block the sharp bite of whatever’s that stuff on the floor. It clings to his throat, burns behind his eyes, makes every breath feel like inhaling battery acid. After only a few minutes his head starts aching from it, a slow throb settling behind his temples.

He grips the mop tighter and tries to pull himself together, moving through the wet puddles of body fluid that reflect the flickering lights overhead, his boots sticking to the floor with every step.

He feels a little out of it, a bit strange.

He’s been feeling the sea tonight. 

Stronger than usual. It hums at the back of his mind, the pull of it more present than it’s been in weeks. Ever since he stepped foot in this city, it’s been slipping through his fingers, like trying to hold on to a dream after waking up. But right now, it’s loud in his blood again, impossible to ignore.

It confuses him. 

Why now? 

Ultimately, it doesn’t matter why. He needs to make a plan. Tomorrow, first thing. Figure out how to move on, where to go, find the direction this feeling wants to lead him. 

He works in relative silence. Only the low hum of generators can be heard, as well as the distant thud of bass through the concrete ceiling above. 

There’s a club up there – he remembers catching a glimpse of the entrance on the way into the building. Flashing lights behind tinted privacy glass, a neon name completely burned out. Maybe one of those party spots where the rich come to slum it for a night.

So when the music shifts, he doesn’t think much of it. Thinks it’s just another pulsing track with a similar rhythm, a similar energy as the one before. 

But then the notes stretch.

And his body reacts before his brain has even caught on.

His stomach tightens, he freezes, his fingers growing numb, the mop slipping from his hand and clattering to the floor.

He knows that song. He knows it by heart.

Every note. Every breath. 

Because it’s his.

His voice. Looped, stretched, drenched in reverb, but unmistakable. Once deadly, now reduced and twisted into something that's simply meant to addict.

Panic shoots through him like ice water.

ReZonyx. 

It’s one of their clubs. 

He whips around, almost tripping over his own feet as he rushes toward the old service stairwell, half-lit by flickering strips of LEDs. 

Hurry. Get out.

He takes the stairs two at a time, pulse thudding in his throat, chest tight, the fabric of his mask sucking and unsucking from his lips with every breath. He’s weirdly dizzy, off-balance, and doesn’t have it in him to slow down before he rounds the corner—slamming straight into a body.

“Whoa—what the hell?” 

It’s the guy who gave him the mop earlier, a lit e-cig dangling from his mouth. It smells of synthetic mint. 

“You’re not done already, are you?” He raises a thick eyebrow. “You think you’re getting paid for half-assing this shit?”

Jimin opens his mouth.

“Ah–no, I just—I wanted–”

The man squints at him, and then his expression shifts into something knowing.

“Ohhh. I get it.” He pulls the cig from between his lips and grins. “You want a taste, huh?” 

He jerks his chin in direction of the music. 

Jimin stiffens. “No, I’m–”

“You ever had it?” 

Jimin swallows. Licks his dry lips. Then he shakes his head. 

The guy’s grin widens. 

“Come on. I’ll let you have a sample on the house. You gonna love it.”

He digs into his jacket pocket and pulls out a white glossy case, flicking it open with his thumb. Two ear plugs rest inside, small and opalescent, like drops of glass lit from within, each one threaded with a thin copper spiral.

Anti-siren tech. 

He pops them in, and Jimin can hear the faint click even from where he stands as they seal into place.

“This way,” the guy says, motioning for Jimin to follow.

“I’m really not interested, I just–”

“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna charge you for it,”  the guy calls over his shoulder, one of the plugs shimmering in his ear like a warning light.

Jimin doesn’t like it.

The fact that this guy is immune to him now.

He hasn’t used his voice since the day he escaped—but still, the thought unsettles him. If something went wrong and he had to sing, this man wouldn’t even flinch.

Jimin’s eyes flick toward the other staircase that leads to the back alley. His way out. The one he should be taking.

“You coming or not?” 

He swallows hard, a wave of nausea tightening in his gut when he realizes he can’t say no.

Refusing would raise flags.

No one – no one – turns down a free hit of siren voice. Especially not someone like him. Poor. Just another nobody clinging to survival. For most, this would be a dream. A rare escape from the grime, a taste of something transcendent, something otherworldly. 

He doesn’t know if this guy is involved with ReZonyx directly, but just in case he is, he has to keep the pretense up. He doesn’t have a choice.

So he follows.

They move through a narrow tunnel, the walls pulsing faintly with the music leaking through the structure, the bass vibrating in the old concrete and pipes. The air grows warmer with each step, heavier, the scent shifting too: sweat, synthetic perfume, electricity.

The song, his voice, grows louder, each note carrying that sickly-sweet undertone, the artificial shimmer of something once organic now pulled apart and stitched back together in a way that's not quite right.

Light pulses ahead, colorful flashes bleeding through the gaps in the metal door at the end of the tunnel.

When they reach it and the guy pushes it open, Jimin is hit by a wall of bass—thick, heavy, vibrating in his ribs like a second heartbeat—and a rush of air, hot and charged.

They move up another short flight of industrial stairs. At the top, they step into a wide gallery perched above the club. It looks like some kind of VIP area, though it’s empty right now, just a few empty lounge seats and scattered tables, all positioned to face the railing that runs the length of the space, perfectly placed to watch the chaos below.

Jimin steps forward, his hands curling around the cold metal.

Down there, on the dancefloor, bodies writhe in time with the beat, limbs jerking out of sync like gravity works differently down there. Faces are glazed over in ecstasy. Some people dance, others just float—swaying in place. One girl lies curled on the floor, eyes wide and wet with tears, smiling like she’s seeing something beautiful.

Jimin’s voice, looped and processed, pours from massive speakers like syrup, heavy and slow, vibrating through the structure of the building. 

Those people are high. 

And Jimin’s voice is the drug.

In person, his song kills.

On tape, it works differently. It melts people’s brains. Triggers euphoria, hallucinations, dissociation. 

He watches someone collapse mid-dance, their body folding in on itself. No one helps. No one even pauses. They just keep dancing, stepping over them like nothing happened.

He always knew why they kept him in that lab—why they locked him in a tank and made him sing, over and over again, with shock-collars around his neck that targeted his vocal cords, needling them with vibrations until they seized, until his body had to push sound out.

They never made a secret of recording him, packaging it, turning his voice into a product. He knew they built entire clubs around it. A booming industry. High-end. Profitable.

But he’s never seen it in person.

It’s terrifying.

Those people move like puppets, limbs and faces slack, bodies hollowed out by pleasure. Some are crying. Some are laughing. Some are just staring into nothing, almost looking like the song is the only thing that's holding them together.

High above the crowd, a massive screen pulses with light, casting its glow over the writhing bodies below. On it, a face sings—flawless and unreal. It looks almost human, but it’s too smooth, too polished. Big silver-blue eyes shimmer beneath long white lashes, white hair flows, silky and weightless. Skin looking like porcelain with a digital sheen. It blinks slowly, tilts its head, and parts its glossy lips in perfect sync with Jimin’s melody.

Jimin has seen it everywhere. 

He knows that’s him.

Or what they’ve made of him. 

The avatar they assigned to his voice. The face they’ve given it, and market it with. A brand, a symbol, a celebrity. It’s on billboards, on magazines, on merchandise they sell. It has fans. Worshippers. People who scream when its hologram walks a runway or performs a virtual show. 

People cry at the sound of its voice, not caring who the real person behind it is. Just like right now.

Jimin watches it all, heart pounding, nausea crawling up his throat. His song floods the air, thick and suffocating, and all he wants to do is to tear it out of the speakers. Out of their ears. Out of existence.

Because this is wrong.

That voice—it isn’t his anymore. It belongs to them now.

They get to hear it without dying.

They get to bask in it without fear.

They get to enjoy it, while he was locked away in a glass prison, while he has to be on the run now, searching for his home, for the place where he belongs in this world.

His jaw tightens, his hands gripping the railing so hard that his knuckles start to hurt. 

It’s not supposed to be like this.

He wants them to break.

He wants them to suffer.

He wants them to die listening to his song, the way they’re meant to.

Rage claws up from somewhere deep inside him, hot and cold, burning under his skin, lashing behind his ribs. A siren’s fury, starved for too long. 

“What the hell is this?”

The low voice cuts through the music and slices right into Jimin’s throat, catching his breath mid-inhale and locking it there like a hook in his windpipe.

Shit. 

His shoulders pull tight, his pulse slamming into overdrive. He can feel it hammering behind his ribs and in his temples, while his legs hollow.

He knows that voice. 

For years it’s been branded into him. 

“Good morning, starfish,” it used to say.

“Na-ah, we both know how that ends.”

“Stay still, you just gonna end up hurting yourself.” 

The sight of the dancing people blurs together, turning into nothing but color and motion. Jimin’s ears ring beneath the throb of the bass. 

Behind him footsteps approach, coming closer and closer. 

“Sir,” the guy’s voice sounds tight and nervous. “I was just showing today’s cleaner the area. Said he’s never had siren voice before.”

“And who told you you could hand out freebies?”

The footsteps come to a halt, and now Jimin can smell him. It’s a familiar scent. A scent that wraps tight around his ribs and squeezes, until his lungs forget how to breathe. And yet he wants to. To breathe. Desperately. He wants to drag it in, wants it to fill him, wants to soak in it. 

Salt and crushed shells, wind and wet rock. 

Jeon Jungkook smells of the sea.

And Jimin hates him for it.

Because he smells like Jimin’s home even though he’s anything but.

Because he smells like the tide and something ancient, something that belongs beneath the waves, not here. Not in this ugly world.

And because he smells like Jimin’s failure.

That scent clings to him only because Jimin didn’t manage to kill him.

Because on the day Jungkook dragged Jimin from the sea – hissing, thrashing, mad with fury – Jimin clawed him, bit him, tried to pull him under. 

But it wasn’t enough.

He failed. And now the sea stains Jungkook’s breath, his skin, his blood, with a scent that doesn’t belong to him. 

Jeon Jungkook should smell of rot instead. Of salt-bloated flesh and stagnant water. Of death. He shouldn’t be standing here now, smelling of the home Jimin can no longer find. He shouldn't be standing here at all.

Rage boils beneath Jimin’s skin, hot and sharp, begging to be used. But it won’t help him here. Not with the man he’s been running from standing just behind him, without a doubt wearing anti-siren tech, completely invulnerable in a club pulsing with Jimin’s stolen voice.

So he swallows it down. Shoves the fury deep – buries it where all the other poison lives – and forces himself to breathe.

In. Out. 

In. Out. 

Think.

“I-I’m sorry, sir. I just—I thought he might turn into a paying customer in the future and–”

“So you thought you could hand out the rarest product in the world like it’s a fucking taster menu?”

The air turns too hot beneath Jimin’s mask. The scent is everywhere now, clouding his senses, dragging up a thousand memories—water against his skin, endlessness, chains and cuffs, the tank.

His throat burns.

His fingers twitch.

He needs to get out. Now.

Every second he lingers is a risk. Not much longer and they will realize the music isn’t affecting him. Plus, it probably doesn’t take much to be recognized by someone who's been watching him for years from outside his tank. Even though his hair is different now, even though half his face is covered with the mask. Jungkook is no idiot. 

He shifts his weight and turns, keeping his head down, eyes fixed on the ground. 

“Sorry,” he mutters lowly, trying to disguise his voice as he steps past the guy who led him in, then moves to slip by Jungkook. 

His heart hammers like it wants out of his chest, and he doesn’t look up, only sees Jungkook’s boots—black, worn at the edge of the soles—and the hem of dark pants.

He smells salt and wind, and bites his tongue as he passes, for a split second sure that it’s over for him, that a hand will shoot out and clamp around his wrist, or that Jungkook will say his name.

But neither happens.

He keeps walking toward the door that leads to the tunnel. 

The bass thrums through his bones, vibrating in his knees, in his teeth, in his chest.

He doesn’t breathe until he’s through the door and it swings shut behind him, muffling the noise. 

The silence hits like a slap, jolting his body into motion. He breaks into a jog, boots thudding against the metal stairs as he descends. Each step lands hard, too loud, echoing off the narrow walls like gunfire. 

Hurry up.

He takes a turn, crosses the bridge toward the second flight of stairs that leads up to the alley outside. Once he’s reached it, he takes two steps at a time. 

A sudden sound behind him nearly makes him miss one, and he catches himself on the railing, heart in his throat. 

Footsteps.

Heavy. Steady. 

Getting closer.

Jimin’s fingers grow cold.

He should keep moving, eyes forward, he can’t waste any time. But his body betrays him. He can’t help himself when he turns to look over his shoulder. Just a split second, just enough time to see Jungkook emerge from around the corner and start up the stairs after him.

He doesn’t even look like he’s in a hurry. Dressed in black from head to toe, fitted leather jacket, cargo pants, combat boots that land quieter than Jimin’s cheap ones on the metal stairs. His hair is shorter than it used to be, but his body language hasn’t changed. Solid. Controlled. 

When he lifts his head, and the overhead lights hit his face, Jimin catches a glimpse of something pale and shimmery. The scar Jimin knows all too well. 

And then their eyes lock. 

A chill runs down Jimin’s spine. 

He turns and bolts, boots slamming against the stairs, arms pumping, every part of him screaming to move move move.

Behind him, Jungkook speeds up too.

The stairwell seems to go on forever, and it feels like an eternity until Jimin finally hits the last step and shoves through the door at the top, stumbling into the darkness of the alley beyond.

The night air is warm and foul, thick with oil and smog.

He gets two steps in. Maybe three.

Then a hand closes around his upper arm and wrenches him back.

He barely has time to twist before his spine slams into brick, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs, and for a second all he hears is his own pulse in his ears.

Jungkook is right in front of him, one hand wrapping around Jimin’s throat, the other going straight for his mask, ripping it down with one sharp tug. The strings snap, fabric sailing to the dirty pavement between them.

Jimin bares his teeth with a hiss, both hands flying up to grab Jungkook’s arm. His nails dig into the leather of his jacket uselessly—he knows it won’t do anything. Not like this. Not in this form. No claws. No fangs.

Jungkook’s lips curl into a grin, illuminated by the pale neon light of a sign that’s flickering on and off somewhere above them. 

“Well, well,” he drawls. “A little starfish washed up in my net.” His grip on Jimin’s throat tightens. “Funny. I was actually looking for you.”

“Yeah, funny,” Jimin spits. 

Jungkook’s chuckles, his eyes slowly dragging over Jimin’s face, then settling on his hair. He raises a brow. 

“Hate to tell you this, but black doesn’t suit you.”

He looks exactly like Jimin remembers—and somehow worse. Still unfairly handsome in that infuriating, sharp-edged way, all cheekbones and clean lines and dark eyes. 

But all Jimin can look at is the scar. 

Even in the dim light he can see it dragging from just shy of Jungkook’s left eye, cutting clean across his cheek, and ending just above the corner of his mouth. A pale, silvery gash. The mark Jimin left on him the day they stole him from the sea – when he tried to tear Jungkook’s face off. When he failed. 

The sight twists something deep in his gut, his mouth filling with the taste of something dark and bitter, mixing with the scent that’s curling off Jungkook’s skin. 

Salt. Wind. Crushed shells. Home. 

His lungs stutter around the urge to inhale it deeply. To let it drown him.

It’s been almost a decade since Jimin tried to kill him, and the scent of the sea is still stuck to Jungkook as if it was day one. Just like the scar it will probably never go away. Jimin wants to bite it out of his skin. Rip the scent off him with his teeth. To finish what he failed to do—so badly his mouth waters at the thought of ocean filling it.

He swallows, and that’s when he’s reminded of Jungkook’s hand around his throat. 

“Cat got your tongue?” Jungkook tilts his head and that’s when Jimin catches the iridescent shimmer of the anti-siren tech in his ears. 

He doesn’t waste any time and lunges, hand snapping up to rip one of the earplugs free, but Jungkook is faster.

His fingers close around Jimin’s wrist, grip like iron.

"Ah, we both know how that ends."

Jimin’s jaw tightens at the memory of the last time he tried this. It was in the lab when he was in his human form, guided by Jungkook from his tank to the recording studio where he would again be forced to sing songs until he collapsed.

Jimin had waited. Watched. Timed it just right—and yanked the left earplug straight out of Jungkook’s ear before the other could even react.

But he never got the chance to sing.

Jungkook was on him in a heartbeat—an arm wrapping tightly around Jimin’s throat, yanking him back against his chest, the crook of his elbow pressing mercilessly into Jimin’s windpipe while his other hand clamped over Jimin’s mouth.

“Wrong move, starfish.” 

Jimin clawed at him, his useless human nails digging into fabric and skin, but Jungkook didn’t even budge. He kept choking Jimin until black crept into the corners of his vision, pressure building behind his eyes. And then everything went dark. 

When he came to, he was back in the water, back in the tank.

Apparently, the big boss had been furious about the lost day of recording. Jimin could tell Jungkook had been on the receiving end of that anger and was now apparently assigned to watch him all night. He didn’t say anything, just sat in the room outside the glass with a grim set to his jaw, shoulders tight.

From that day on, every trip to the recording room meant shackles and a gag.

“I might try my luck anyway,” Jimin hisses now, lunging for Jungkook’s other ear with his free hand.

But just like last time, Jungkook moves fast.

He spins Jimin around, making him stumble, then grabs both of his arms and yanks them behind his back.

Jimin snarls, trying to twist free, but Jungkook locks his wrists together in one hand, the other grabbing his nape and slamming him chest-first into the wall.

Rough brick scrapes Jimin’s cheek, and he grits his teeth.

“If you’re into being gagged and bound, just say so.” Jungkook’s voice is so close that Jimin can feel his breath in his hair. 

“Certainly not,” he laughs drily. 

Then he snaps his head back as fast as he can. 

His skull smashes into Jungkook’s nose with a sickening crack, pain bursting across the back of his head, making his vision flicker. 

Jungkook grunts behind him, stumbling, grip slipping just enough for Jimin to wrench himself free. 

He doesn’t waste a heartbeat and runs.  

He hears a sharp curse, then statics from a comm.

“I’ve got eyes on the asset, he’s heading toward—”

Jimin doesn’t hear the rest.

He leaves at dawn, because staying one more day feels like asking to be caught, and the little time right before morning, when the sky’s a dull gray, is when the streets are usually the emptiest.

The clouds are heavy, the air hangs thick with smog, wet on his skin, sticky in his clothes. As expected, only a few drunks sway between alleyways, junkies fresh off their fix sleeping in the corners, one or two nightshift workers heading home with dead eyes and stiff shoulders. Drones pass overhead in slow loops, their scanners humming. No one pays attention, and that’s exactly how he wants it.

He keeps his pace steady. Quick, but not too rushed, backpack slung over his shoulder, hood up, cap low, respirator mask strapped tight over his face. Just another body moving through the city, nothing worth noticing. 

He forces himself to behave casual, doesn’t look back, doesn’t stop. 

But every step feels wired tight, like it’s only a matter of time before the calm shatters, before the quiet snaps and someone grabs him from behind. 

Only when the city thins out does he quicken his steps. 

First, the neon fades. Then the towers disappear behind him, swallowed by the smog. The streets get wider, emptier, steel and concrete giving way to the collapsed ruins of buildings and stretches of dead ground where nothing’s been built in years, the pavement’s more holes than road.

He keeps going. Past crumbling highways that are falling apart, and slum camps slapped together from sheet metal, plastic tarps, and whatever else people could drag off the junk heaps. He sleeps in drainage tunnels and half-collapsed storage units, spends his last coin at a roadside stall for bottled water.

When he reaches the next city two days later, he’s worn out, blistered, and soaked in sweat.

While he walks down the busy streets, every single one looking the same as the one before, he keeps hearing footsteps behind him. A low voice calling out—

“Starfish.”

But every time he spins around, there’s nothing there. Nobody following him. Just the usual crawl of the city. Strangers with dead eyes, moving like they always do. Same in every city. Different faces, different streets, but also the same. Always the same. 

He knows he should pull himself together. Find a job. Rent a room. Blend in. 

Try to listen for the sea. 

But instead, he folds into the corner of an alley, knees pulled up tight, his back pressed to hard brick. 

What the hell is going on?

His head feels like it’s tearing open, his breath scraping in and out of his throat, shallow and fast.

He has never felt this shitty. 

The first night, he tells himself it’s just exhaustion. Too little sleep. Too much walking.

The second, his hands won’t stop shaking. He grips them into fists, hides them in his jacket pockets, but they won’t stop.

Everything tastes metallic.

When he wakes, there’s dried blood under his nose and a low hum in his ears that won’t leave—like static crawling in his bones. 

There’s still the voices behind him. 

Saying his name. 

Jimin. 

“Starfish.” 

 Whenever it happens, he runs, legs heavy, heart hammering—but it’s always nothing. 

By the third night, the world starts slipping sideways. Neon signs blur into streaks of color, people’s faces morph into grimaces when he looks too long.

He ducks into alleys, crouches behind dumpsters, squeezes his eyes shut and tells himself it’s fine. It’ll pass. 

But it doesn’t. The chills start next, his fingers numb, his skin clammy. He burns hot and cold at the same time, a sick pressure crawling over him like his entire body is wired wrong, his throat burning. 

Where is his respirator? He must’ve lost it somewhere. 

And then it hits him. 

Curled up in the doorway of a boarded-up storefront, arms locked around his knees, trying not to vomit—the word slams into his brain like a fist:

Urban rot.

The poison of the cities.

The kind that builds up in his system every time he stays in human form too long. The kind that eats him from the inside out—rotting his brain, twisting his nerves, clogging his blood until there’s nothing left but sickness and static.

He always underestimates it, always thinks he has more time. 

But it’s catching up now, hitting him harder than ever before, and if he doesn’t shift back into siren form soon, it might actually kill him this time. Only in his siren form can his body fight off this human-made filth.

But he can’t change without water.

He needs to find water. Now. 

The realization kicks him into motion. He drags himself to his feet, the world tilting as he stumbles onto the street. The sun is burning, low on the horizon but harsh enough to punch through the smog, giving the world a grim yellow tone. His clothes cling to his back, soaked with sweat, his boots too heavy on his feet, his skin itching. 

He picks a direction and moves fast, tries to listen to his instincts, even though every step feels like his bones are grinding together.

It’s night by the time it finally hits him. The faint scent of damp stone, clean steam, and filtered water.

He doesn’t know if it’s real or just the urban rot scrambling his senses. 

He follows it anyway.

Seven years earlier…

“Aren’t you proud of yourself? Everyone wants to hear your voice.” 

Jungkook’s words came muffled through the glass, warped by water. He stood there, hands shoved into the pockets of his cargo jacket, neon ReZonyx badge half-tucked under the strap of his harness, boots planted wide, expression flat.

Jimin hovered mid-water, his claws flexing, his tail swishing back and forth, his pink hair a pastel cloud in the corner of his eyes. He let himself drift closer to the glass. Close enough to see the reddish pink of the scar across Jungkook's cheek.

Almost three years, and it still looked raw and painful. 

Good.

“The boss is pleased.” Jungkook went on, his voice dry. “You're a real star, little fish.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “A starfish.”

Jimin bared his teeth. “Call me that again and see what happens.”

“Why? It’s fitting, don’t you think? You’re a star and a fish.” Jungkook stepped closer, crossing his arms. “Pretty sure starfish are spineless creatures too—which also checks out.” 

Jimin scoffed. “You’re calling me spineless? You?! Piss off and crawl back to your boss.”

“Why would I? I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. Guarding a spineless little starfish in a tank.”

“At least starfish grow their limbs back.” Jimin’s gaze flicked to the scar on Jungkook’s cheek. “Too bad your face won’t.”

Jungkook’s smile vanished in an instant. 

He moved so fast that Jimin almost flinched, slamming his fist against the glass, a deep thud rippling through the water.

He glared at Jimin, and Jimin held his gaze, taking in the anger, letting it fill him with joy. 

“Careful.” Jungkook’s voice dropped low. “I’m in a bad mood today.” 

Jimin tilted his head, pulling a slow, exaggerated pout, fake pity dripping from his next words.

“I know.” Before he could stop it, the pout morphed into a grin that pulled his lips wide and that he knew would make Jungkook furious. “Happy anniversary, I guess.” 

Jungkook’s eyes darkened, his jaw locking so hard the muscles visibly twitched. Then his fists slammed against the glass again, his knuckles white.

“Yeah, I guess you would think it’s happy,” he hissed. 

Jimin just shrugged, keeping the grin in place.

The truth was—he was very much indifferent about it.

The fact that, once upon a time, he’d drowned someone Jungkook happened to care about didn’t mean anything to him.

He’d dragged plenty of humans into the deep – smugglers, cargo runners, rich people on yachts – whoever drifted too close to his territory. Most of the time, he didn’t even remember their faces. Why would he? They were a blur of flailing limbs and gurgled screams, here one moment, gone the next.

But even if this one, the one Jungkook knew, was just as insignificant to Jimin as all the others, Jimin wasn’t about to pass up the chance to twist the knife. So he kept the grin in place, kept watching for the flicker of rage in Jungkook’s eyes. If he was going to rot in this glass box, he’d take every small win he could get.

Over time, stuck in this tank, with nothing but the muffled voices of guards and staff leaking through the glass keeping him company, he’d learned a few things.

Jungkook hadn’t been born into this life. He hadn’t grown up with a gun in his hand like most of the others here.

Jimin never learned how exactly Jungkook had grown up – and he’d never admit he’d actually been curious – but over time, he’d picked up that Jungkook was an orphan, and that he had an older brother. 

He heard that said brother got tangled up with ReZonyx first. And Jungkook, young and eager, followed. 

Word was that the brother climbed the ranks fast and ended up running black-route cargo runs along the coast.

One of those runs happened to pass into Jimin’s hunting ground.

And like every other ship that did, it sank.

Bodies, metal, cargo—swallowed by the sea.

Jungkook hadn’t even been on board. He’d been on shore duty at the time, some rookie still trying to prove himself. But after his brother died, he climbed the ranks just as fast. 

And when ReZonyx kicked off their little siren project, he was first in line to hunt Jimin down.

Unfortunately for Jimin, he succeeded. And then volunteered to be his handler.

Jimin had no doubt it wasn’t about the job. From what he’d picked up, Jungkook could’ve climbed higher, taken better work—hell, even the boss had apparently said Jungkook was wasted on handler duty.

But he’d stuck around. And Jimin was sure he’d done it for one reason only.

Because he wanted revenge for his brother’s death. 

Because he enjoyed watching Jimin suffer. 

Right now though, Jungkook didn’t look like he was enjoying any of it.

For a moment, he just stared, eyes hard, something sharp and ugly flickering beneath the anger—then his lip curled.

“Keep grinning. Let’s see how long it lasts.”

Then he turned and walked away, without waiting for Jimin’s reply.  

Today…

The bathhouse stands tucked between two shuttered apartment blocks, squeezed into a narrow side street.

The sign is dead. The windows are dark. But the cigarette bin by the door is half-full, the butts fresh, and a smudged handprint stains the glass—clear proof people have been coming and going. The windows aren’t boarded up, and seemingly cleaned every now and then. 

This place is still running. 

Relief swells in Jimin’s chest, and the thought of water keeps his legs moving, even though his head is pounding and his skin still itches under dried sweat and grime. 

He circles to the side of the building, boots scraping broken glass, and immediately finds what he’s looking for: A dented service door hidden beside a dumpster that smells of old food and chemicals. The handle is bolted, but the lock seems corroded.

Jimin looks around, eyes flicking over the trash heap next to the dumpster, a rusted metal bucket catching his eye. He nudges it closer with his foot, flipping it over. Then he grips the dumpster’s edge to steady himself as he steps on it and hauls his weight up.  

The metal edge digs into his stomach as he leans over, squinting into the trash heap under the weak glow of the streetlight. Broken bottles, greasy paper, splintered furniture, the remains of someone’s takeout—then something catches his eye. A glint of metal, half-buried beneath a torn plastic tray.

He reaches for it.

A bent rod, cold and solid in his grip—maybe part of a chair leg or a sign bracket. His vision swims as he tugs, bile rising in his throat from the effort. It resists, then jerks free all at once, throwing him off balance.

He stumbles back, slipping down from the bucket to the ground, the rod clutched tight in his hand. His breath comes hard and shallow as he fights back the wave of nausea rising in his throat. Still trembling, he turns to the service door.

He wedges the rod between the bolt and the warped frame, then he throws his entire weight against it. Once. Twice. Black spots dancing in front of his vision. On the third hit, the lock finally snaps.

Jimin grabs for the door handle and hauls the door open, the metal scraping against the ground with a shriek that makes his teeth hurt.

He freezes, looks over his shoulder, listens.

But there’s nothing—just the wind stirring trash in the alley and the distant hum of the city.

He slips inside and is hit with the wet, heavy air of the bathhouse—hot steam and minerals and the sweetness of soap. 

He stumbles down the corridor, illuminated only by flickering emergency lights, his feet dragging loudly. Somewhere close by, water trickles, soft and rhythmic. His skin prickles at the sound, his lungs tightening, something inside him stirring and straining toward it. Every step feels heavier, like gravity’s pulling harder, his bones too dense, his mouth too dry, his throat raw, muscles trembling.

And then, around the final corner, the hallway opens up.

The room is big. Hard to tell how big in the dark, but the walls stretch farther than before, and the air changes too, it’s even warmer now, wetter. A few dim lights blink along the far wall, casting just enough glow to make out the shape of the pools, the stillness of the glittery water.

Water.

Finally. 

He pulls at his clothes with unsteady hands. Jacket. Shirt. Whatever’s sticking to him. He yanks it all off, dragging fabric over damp skin, stumbling until his knees hit the edge of the nearest pool.

Then he lets himself drop forward. 

The water closes over him with a soft rush, and even though it’s too warm – not at all like the cool sea but heated by manmade systems – his body drinks it, breathes it in. A weight lifts from his bones the second he sinks, the pressure in his chest dissolving, the ache in his joints fading, the fever under his skin easing.

His ears fill, the outside world muffling, the pounding in his head dulling to a faint hum. Everything slows down.

And then something changes.

It starts deep behind his ribs. His lungs stop protesting, stop needing air. The pressure loosens, turns into something else – a stretch, a pull. His spine arches, his muscles shift, no longer sore, no longer tight, no longer stiff. His skin tingles, his fingers twitch, the tips of his nails stinging, then lengthening, hardening, curving into sharp and familiar claws. 

His song hums low inside him, steady and certain, his legs pressing together. The urge to kick fades, and something slower takes over, something smooth and effortless. He doesn’t need to strain anymore to keep himself steady, the water holds him now, cradles him. 

He feels his hips tighten, feels the familiar weight of his tail unfurling, feels the power that comes with it. It anchors him. Completes him. 

Scales catch the faint light filtering through the surface – muted lavender with glints of silver, smooth as glass. He gives a slow flick, and the water responds at once, parting around him, carrying him forward without resistance.

He closes his eyes as the toxins finally begin to bleed from his body. The rot of the city, the exhaustion, the chemicals, it seeps from his pores, the water drawing it out, bit by bit.

He floats and lets it drain from him. 

The water is quiet, just like Jimin’s head.

For the first time in months, the pulsing is gone. No pressure behind his eyes, no buzzing in his bones. He doesn’t feel like he’s unraveling anymore.

He moves slowly, unhurried. The pool isn’t large, just wide enough for three strong flicks of his tail before he’s met with a tiled wall. He turns, glides back the other way. Then again. And again. The rhythm is steady, the water hums around him, holding him, enclosing him. Dull, muted, soothing.

He glides back and forth, back and forth, back and forth—until his tail stills mid-flick. 

The muscles in his back go rigid before his mind catches up.

What was that?

A noise?

He stays still and listens for a moment, then he pushes upward slowly, just enough to break the surface with his eyes. 

In this form, he can see better in the dark, and when he looks around, the room looks the same. Still and empty, his clothes a heap on the floor where he tore them off earlier.

He strains his ears. 

Nothing. 

Just the soft drip of water from a pipe somewhere. 

His muscles are just about to ease, when he hears it again.

A faint scrape. 

He freezes.

The distant creak of a door, a metallic clatter.

Shit.

How long has he been here? Is the bathhouse opening for a new day already?

His gaze drifts to the high windows near the ceiling, but it’s still completely dark out. 

Maybe someone’s come in early to clean?

He should leave. Get out before anyone sees him.

Then again—if someone does see him, he could easily take care of it. Sing for them. Drown them.

The thought sends an excited shiver down his spine, his fins curling with it. 

Instincts kick in, and he stills completely—lips parted, eyes focused, arms hovering just beneath the surface, loose but ready.

His throat hitches with a half-formed note. Not a song yet, but one waiting.

He feels a familiar buzz under his skin. The thrill of the hunt.

He waits.

And waits. 

Patient. Calculating.

There’s another noise, and then a flicker of light, right outside the open double door leading to the hallway. A quick flash, then it disappears again. 

His eyes narrow, his fins twitch, the buzz sharpening. 

Someone really is here. 

He keeps watching the hallway where the light vanished until he hears another sound. 

Faint and dull at first, but getting louder. Heavy and rhythmic. 

Boots. 

More than one pair.

His pulse thuds once in his ears. Then he hears clipped voices, the quiet rasp of static from an intercom. 

His stomach drops just when he catches the scent. 

Salt and wind. 

Home. 

Panic spikes hard in his chest. He ducks under in one smooth motion, tail propelling him backward, into the far corner of the pool where the shadows are deepest. He presses himself low against the tiled wall, his heart pounding. 

Shit. 

What now?

The footsteps get louder, and from beneath the surface he sees sharp bursts of light flickering overhead, scattering across the water. 

Flashlights. 

The light trembles. Grows stronger. Then weakens. Then returns.

Voices echo right above him. 

He looks up.

A flashlight cuts through the water and floods his vision with white. 

Someone is standing directly over him.

Instinct takes over.

He bares his fangs, flicks his tail, launches upwards, and bursts from the pool, crashing into the guy above, who immediately screams.

He claws at the man’s face, catching skin, dragging him under before he can even finish shouting.

Water surges. Boots stomp. Shots rain down from above, bullets whistling through the water. 

“—down!”

“—can’t see him—”

“Don’t shoot him!” 

That’s Jungkook’s voice. 

Even underwater it cuts right through Jimin’s chest that’s heaving with adrenaline. 

He holds on tight, arms wrapped around the guy’s torso, who trashes around with muffled screams. 

He needs to think.

He needs to think.

But the panic is louder than any thought, clawing its way up his throat.

He can’t go back there.

He can’t go back to that tank. He can’t go back behind glass. 

His pulse is hammering. His grip is slipping. His mind is scattering in all directions.

He won’t survive it again.

He can’t.

He can’t.

He can’t—

His mouth opens without him realizing and a sound tears out of him.

A scream. A full siren’s cry, dragged from the deepest part of him, splitting the water like a shockwave. It bursts from his chest and vibrates through the pool, setting everything trembling.

A loud bang follows. Then another one.

And then the hissing starts. Coming from all around him. 

Steam floods in from vents and ruptured pipes, thick and fast, curling into the water. The heat of it punches into his skin, stings in his eyes, the surface above him shifting, no longer smooth, but chaotic and trembling.  

The flashlights grow weaker as the steam settles in the room, the voices turning panicked. 

“I can’t see anything!”

“Get back—get back!”

“Where is he?!”

It’s his chance.

Just as the guy struggling in his arms grows weaker, Jimin lets go and shoots upward again, breaking through the surface and into the white blinding steam. He scrambles toward where he thinks the edge is, fingers clawing through heat and mist until they find tile. He hauls himself out, elbows slipping, claws scraping. 

The transformation is painful, too fast, too forced. 

His body twists against itself as skin reshapes and fins peel away, the pain in every nerve sharp and biting. His legs form in a rush, unsteady and trembling. 

He staggers upright on numb feet, and runs.

The dim hallway blurs past him, tiles, doorframes, flickering emergency lights. Jimin feels disoriented, adrenaline dragging him forward while his body is still struggling to catch up. He doesn’t even know where he’s going, has long lost his sense of direction for where the exits are.

He turns a corner blindly, feet skidding over the slick floor, and finds a row of restroom stalls. Metal doors, a cracked mirror, the air smelling of cleaning fumes and something sour beneath.

Dead end.

He’s just about to turn when footsteps echo behind him, followed by that scent. Salt and wind. A rush of sea.

Shit.

His pulse spikes, and he throws himself into the nearest stall, slamming the door shut and turning the lock, pressing himself into the far corner. His skin sticks to the cold wall, his chest heaves, his heart beating so heard he can feel it in his throat. 

The footsteps grow louder, closer, and the air thickens with that scent. It fills his nose, coats his tongue, curls through his head like smoke.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when a loud bang echoes through the room, the first door down the line slamming against tile, the impact vibrating in his chest.

Then another bang. 

And another.

Closer each time, each impact rattling the walls. 

His eyes drop to the gap beneath the door.

A shadow appears, followed by a pair of boots. 

They pause, and Jimin’s muscles pull tight, his jaw clenching. 

When the door slams open, he doesn’t waste a second.

He lunges, only getting a fleeting glimpse at Jungkook’s face – brows drawn together, mouth tight – before their bodies collide. His shoulder slams into Jungkook’s chest, and they both stumble into the opposite wall before crashing down to the floor in a tangle of limbs, rolling on top of each other.

Jimin scrambles to get away, but Jungkook pulls him back down, causing him to lose footing, slipping on wet tile. He tries to twist free, elbows Jungkook in the middle, who grunts and uses his bodyweight to pin him, but Jimin somehow gets these useless legs to work, jamming his knee between them and flipping himself on top. Jungkook grimaces when the back of his head audibly hits the floor, and Jimin uses the moment to scramble off. 

He stumbles to his feet, legs shaking as he runs, but he only makes it to the door before Jungkook is on him again. 

He grabs Jimin from behind, one arm locking tight around his bare waist, yanking him flush against his chest. 

Jimin’s breath hitches when fingers wrap around his throat. He snarls and jerks, trying to claw his way out. Jungkook grunts in effort, tightening his hold, and Jimin feels the heat of his breath at his ear.

“Stop fighting, you’ll just end up getting hurt.”

Jimin snorts. “As if you give a shit.”

Suddenly, there’s a smell. Metallic. Sweet. Rotten.

Sedatives.

His eyes drop just in time to see the glint of a needle in Jungkook’s hand.

Panic claws up his throat, and he starts thrashing, his elbow driving into Jungkook’s ribs. Jungkook grunts, grip slipping, and Jimin throws himself forward, causing them both to stumble. The world tilts as he loses his balance. His shoulder slamming into the ground first, his chest smacking down a second later. The impact is immediately followed by a heavy weight on his back, Jungkook’s knees pressing into the back of his thighs, a hand shoving between his shoulder blades, forcing him flat.

“Don’t—” Jimin chokes out, straining his neck, trying to see where the needle is. “Don’t you fucking dare—”

From the corner of his eye, he catches Jungkook’s hand coming down, aiming for his bicep. He twists and turns, somehow manages to catch Jungkook’s wrist just in time, his other hand fumbling for the syringe.

They struggle, the plastic slipping between their hands, clattering to the floor. Jimin’s hand shoots out, his fingers wrapping around it—

And then he drives the needle into Jungkook’s thigh. 

“Fuck!” 

Jungkook shoves his hand back with a strangled snarl, ripping the syringe out and flinging it aside. But it’s too late. Jimin can already see his balance faltering, his weight tipping sideways, and he doesn’t hesitate.

He scrambles out from under him, slamming into the far wall as he hauls himself up.

Then he bolts. 

Behind him, he hears Jungkook trying to follow, hears the stagger in his steps, the quiet curses. 

He doesn’t look back.

The train rattles along the tracks, a low mechanical groan that never stops. 

Jimin slouches in his seat, hood low, respirator strapped over the lower half of his face. It’s better than the old one – the one he lost somewhere while stumbling through the streets, half-delirious with urban rot. This one doesn’t dig into his cheeks as much and doesn't whirr with every breath. He worked three shifts at a scrapyard to afford it, but it was worth it.

He stares at the floor between his boots. Grime clings to the metal, there’s dried gum smeared near his left foot, the corner of a flyer sticking to it, flattened and color bled out from countless shoes stepping over it.  

The tunnel lights flicker through the windows in quick intervals, brief flashes of brightness that vanish into black, just to come back a heartbeat later.

Each one scrapes at his skull, hurts his head. 

He blinks, his vision wavers, then sharpens for a moment, only to blur again. 

He hasn’t slept in days.

Every time he closes his eyes and starts to drift off, his body jerks awake—heart pounding, breath caught halfway. It’s like some part of him refuses to let go. His nerves are raw, his entire body tense and on high alert, every inch of him braced for the sound of footsteps coming closer, for the glint of a needle, or the smell of wind, seashells and wet rocks. 

He swallows around the dryness in his throat and mindlessly rubs a thumb against the seam of his worn pants. 

He needs to leave this city. It's eating him up. There are no options here, not many jobs, no shelter.

He’s been sensing the sea again, but no matter where he turns, it’s nothing but dead ends. He came from the south, he tried east, he tried north—nothing. That’s why he’s riding this line to the outskirts, planning to get off in West Connector maybe, or Edgepoint. Somewhere far enough from the middle sectors to try hitching a ride further west. He’ll figure out the rest later.

He hates to admit it but the fear of running into another dead end eats him up from inside, like sharp teeth gnawing at his stomach. 

What that lady said last night didn’t help. 

Jimin hadn’t meant to talk to anyone, but yesterday, in one of those street-corner bars where the lights barely worked, he’d ended up sharing a booth with a woman who reeked of wealth. 

He remembered the way her lips looked when she took her chrome mask off—dark red and smiling flirtatiously with everyone. The drink she ordered shimmered violet, and when she paid, she did so by holding her wrist to the reader, and implant glowing under her skin. Then she scanned the room while sipping on her glass, and when her eyes landed on him, she smiled. 

A few seconds later, she slid into his booth without asking.

He knew what she wanted. She wanted to buy him. Maybe for a night, maybe for a longer arrangement. 

He told her he wasn’t interested, and she didn’t argue. She just pouted and asked him to drink with her anyway. 

He didn’t say no. He had almost no money left and if she offered to pay for his drinks, he would take it. 

So they sat and talked – about this and that. It wasn’t unpleasant, and after a while, the free alcohol unsealed his lips and loosened his tongue, and he let a few things slip. About trying to get out of the city. About trying to find the sea.

He still remembered the way her expression shifted. The slow, confused frown. The way her voice sounded when she said:

“The sea? But isn’t the sea gone?”

He’d heard that before. Dozens of times. It always made his chest go tight. But this time, something about it hit different. Maybe because he was tired. Maybe because he never felt this close to reaching his goal and yet so far away. Maybe because she said it with such surprise, like she was entirely certain the sea – his home – didn’t exist anymore. 

He looked away, shaking his head. 

“No,” he’d told her. “It’s not gone.”

It’s not. 

It’s not gone.

It can’t be gone. It’s all he has left. 

Jimin jumps at the tinny overhead voice announcing the next stop. The train slows down, brakes screeching before they halt, the doors hissing open. A shuffle of passengers exit while another pushes in at the same time, the car filled with movement and noise.

Jimin’s head throbs.

The train lurches forward again. 

He should find coffee somewhere. The outskirts usually have those cheap roadside stands where the coffee tastes burnt but is pumped full of caffeine for the long-haul drivers. Maybe he has enough credits for a sandwich too.

He shifts in his seat, cracking his neck to one side, then the other.

God, he’s so fucking tired.

Maybe there’s a motel nearby. One of those rundown places where he could trade a few hours of labor for a night in a room. He really needs sleep before moving on. Maybe they even have a shower.

Or a bathtub. Somewhere to let his tail out for an hour or two. Just to breathe and to stop aching. Or maybe—

Movement catches the corner of his vision, and something about it makes him lift his head. 

Someone has stepped through the sliding door at the far end of the train and is now making their way down the aisle. Black jacket. Combat boots. A black respirator, just like his. Eyes scanning every face they pass.

Looking. Searching.

Searching for him.

Jimin’s stomach lurches, his pulse slamming up into his throat.

How the fuck, did Jungkook find him here?! 

Jimin lowers his gaze, holding his breath, heart hammering against his ribs.

What now? 

He doesn’t dare look up again. From the corner of his eye, he sees Jungkook moving closer, one passenger at a time, looking left, then right, gaze cutting back and forth between the rows. Closer. And closer.

Jimin’s sure that if he weren’t wearing the respirator, he could already smell the sea.

He grits his teeth. If he bolts too fast, it’ll draw attention. But if he stays—

Another step.

Jungkook hasn’t seen him yet, but it’s only a matter of time.

Jimin’s muscles pull tight.

Fuck.

He moves and gets to his feet slowly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, head down. Then he turns and starts strolling down the aisle in the opposite direction.

The train rattles beneath him. He shifts with the motion, careful with every step. Losing his balance now could cost him everything.

He tries to walk not too fast, not too slow.

Normal. Just act normal.

When he reaches the end of the car, the sliding metal door opens with a mechanical hiss, and he steps into the next compartment.

It’s more crowded here, people standing in the aisle, suitcases blocking his way. He squeezes past, muttering a quiet, “Sorry,” as someone grumbles and shifts.

Behind him, the door hisses open again.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He doesn’t turn to look. Just keeps walking, hands buried in his pockets, sweat pooling at the back of his neck.

“Next stop: Halden Arc, sponsored by GenCore Mobility.”

The brakes lock with a screech, the train slowing down just as the station platform blurs into view through the dusty windows.

As soon as the doors open, Jimin lets the crowd pull him along, feet shuffling, the noise on the platform chaotic and loud, but his pulse thundering even louder. 

He dares a look over his shoulder. 

Their eyes lock, Jungkook’s gaze narrow and sharp, face half-hidden under his mask as he pushes through the crowd to get to him. 

Jimin turns quickly, weaving between people. Someone yells behind him, a string of annoyed curses follows. He ducks around a woman with a suitcase, spots a glowing exit sign ahead and bolts for the nearest stairwell. 

The steps are steep, his thighs burning on his way up,  but he doesn’t slow down. 

At the top, he blinks against the sudden sunlight, his feet skidding on the pavement as he turns the corner and runs. 

Jungkook always looked at him with such hatred in his eyes. Cold, like Jimin was something that needed to be destroyed, like every breath he took was an offense. Back when he was still trapped in the tank at ReZonyx, floating behind reinforced glass, Jungkook would sometimes stand there for hours, just glaring at him. Like he wanted to break through the glass and kill him with his bare hands—for taking the life of someone he loved.

At some point, when things grew more hopeless and the chance of ever getting out slimmed to nothing, Jimin even kind of wished he would do it. 

It didn’t stop as the years passed, but over time, the intensity faded. As if Jungkook grew a little tired of it. The rage dulled into something else, something more calculated and controlled, but it was always there. A loathing that never fully left his eyes.

He’s glaring at Jimin with that very same expression right now. 

Loathing, hatred, and something worn down at the edges. As if the anger has grown exhausted.

The rain lashes down hard above them, a violent hiss of acid droplets sizzling as they strike the glass dome. The atrium – once surely some kind of corporate greenhouse or a type of biodome – is cracked and overgrown, vines clawing up the support beams, but inside it’s thankfully mostly dry. 

Jimin was lucky to have found it, this far out of town, just as the clouds rolled in: thick, greenish-gray, making his skin itch by just looking at them.

Warning sirens had started wailing somewhere behind him not long after, and by the time the first drops began to hiss against the pavement, he’d reached the dome and scrambled through a broken glass door that caught and ripped the hem of his hoodie. 

Now he stands here, between overgrown steel, safe from the storm—but face to face with Jungkook.

Jungkook, who must’ve been following him and is now glaring at him, breathing hard, the sharp stink of acid rain clinging to his clothes.

Jimin stumbles back a step, heart kicking up. He blames it on the sound of the rain and the stench of acid that he didn’t notice Jungkook being there until now. 

He gets a better look.

Jungkook is soaked, jacket dripping onto the cracked earth. His chest rises and falls like he sprinted here – and he most likely did. Getting caught in a storm like this is a death sentence. Acid eats through skin, leaves burns that rot. Jimin has seen it happen.

Jungkook is lucky he’s covered in layers of clothes. 

Still, he doesn’t look good.

And then Jimin notices his hand, clutched to his side. His fingers are wet too—but not from the rain.

Blood.

It’s soaking through the fabric of his jacket, spreading slowly, running between his fingers. 

He’s wounded.

Weak. 

Jimin’s eyes flicker up to Jungkook’s face, catching the tightness in his jaw, then they shift to his ear where he spots the glint of anti-siren tech.

The moment he does, Jungkook’s free hand dips to his waistband with one practiced motion. Something black flashes in his grip, metal catching the light before it’s raised and aimed at Jimin. 

They both freeze, just standing there, staring at each other. Outside, the storm hammers on. Inside, they’ve got nowhere to go.

“You’re hurt,” Jimin says flatly without taking his eyes off the gun.

He’s sure Jungkook wouldn’t kill him. He wants him alive after all. But wounding him just enough to stop him from running? Yeah. That seems like something he wouldn’t hesitate to do. Then again—he doesn’t look in any shape to carry anyone anywhere. 

Jungkook shifts his weight, face tightening with pain. 

“No shit.”

Then he lowers the gun with a huff, jaw tight as he limps to the side, where he turns and leans back against the wall. He slides down the glass panel slowly until he’s on the ground, landing hard and ungraceful. His knees bend stiffly, boots shifting through the overgrown floor. He leans his head back against the glass, eyes slipping shut. 

Jimin stays where he is, eyes flicking between the gun now resting loosely in Jungkook’s hand and the dark patch spreading wider on his jacket.

He’s seen Jungkook angry. Furious. Cold. Calculated. Violent. But this – slumped on the floor, bleeding, breathing through his teeth, trying to stay conscious – this is new. It’s strange. Off-balance. Weird.

It probably should be satisfying, but it’s not. For some reason it annoys him. 

There’s a sharp flicker of possessiveness in his chest, a familiar feeling that he last felt back in that club, when those humans had listened to his voice and survived. It’s almost like jealousy, the instinctive pull of something that should’ve been his.

If Jungkook is going to die, it should be because of him.

No because of some random human gunshot wound. 

He frowns. 

“How did that happen?”

Jungkook huffs something that might be a laugh. It comes out rough. 

“Why do you care?”

“I don’t.” 

Jungkook opens one eye, gives him a slow once-over. 

“You look like shit,” he mutters.

Jimin snorts, because – sure – he’s tired, worn out, probably pale with dark circles under his eyes from too many nights without rest, but at least he’s not the one leaking blood into the dirt. 

“Well. Likewise.” 

Silence stretches between them, filled only with the distorted roar of rain slamming against the glass above. Jimin glances up at the ceiling, eyes following the murky water streaming down the dome. The world outside is smeared into greenish-gray, a haze of chemical clouds and shadows. He’s not going to get out of here anytime soon. It could be hours before the storm lets up. 

So he makes his way to the far end of the dome, giving Jungkook a wide berth, whose eyes follow his every move. Jimin goes far enough to bring distance between them, but close enough to keep an eye on the other. Then he sinks down onto the ground, unhooks the mask still dangling around his neck, and leans back against the glass, drawing his knees up.

For a while, neither of them says anything. The rain keeps hammering the dome, and they don’t look away. Just sit there, staring across at each other like it’s a game of who blinks first, just like they always did. 

Back then, for a while, Jimin had found it amusing that Jungkook constantly glared at him like he wanted him dead. All because Jimin happened to kill some random human Jungkook happened to care about. He found it amusing that Jungkook could hold onto a grudge that long, but after a while he grew kind of accustomed to the hate and resentment. 

So much so that he was utterly thrown off when – one day – Jungkook came into the lab outside his schedule, in the middle of the night. He was clearly drunk, or on some other kind of drug that humans oftentimes took.

He was different that night. Not angry. Just tired, and a little unsteady. 

And for the first time, he talked to Jimin like he was a person. Not a monster. 

He sat slumped against the tank, his words slow and slurred. 

He talked about that human, his brother. He never said his name, but he said that that human loved the sea so much that if he could have, he would’ve lived in it.

Jimin had laughed at that. A human living in the sea? Ridiculous.

But Jungkook hadn’t laughed.

He said the guy’s dream was to live on a boat. Said he loved nature. Trees, mountains, open air—all the stuff that was nearly impossible to find anymore.

He even had a place, Jungkook said. A real house, way out past the last managed zones, where the city fell off behind the horizon, where the mountains started and the woods still clung to the land. No security towers, no billboards, no drones, just trees and sky and silence. He took Jungkook there once or twice. Showed him the stars.

Jimin remembers feeling vaguely amused at the idea. A human with a house in the wilderness. A human who watched the stars.

The visits didn’t last, Jungkook said. The jobs piled up. ReZonyx kept demanding more, there were tighter deadlines, longer shifts. His brother started taking back-to-back cargo runs. And when he did get a day off, he was too tired to make the trip out. 

And then—Jungkook stopped talking, and he didn’t need to say the rest. Jimin already knew how that story ended. His brother took a cargo run into Jimin’s waters—and died.

Jimin hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but somehow that night never left his mind. Probably for one reason only. Because after Jungkook went quiet for a while, he looked up at him through the glass—cheeks flushed, eyes glassy, voice soft.

“I hate you.”

I know, Jimin wanted to say, because that was nothing new. But then Jungkook spoke up again.

“And he’d hate me for this.”

Jimin didn't really understand what that meant. But he didn't ask either.  

After that night, Jungkook never came back drunk again. Never showed up outside his schedule, and never spoke to Jimin like he was anything more than a monster behind glass again. He went back to staring at him with that same cold hatred, and Jimin wondered if he even remembered that night at all.

A rustle of movement breaks the silence, and Jimin looks up to see Jungkook shifting, jaw tight as he adjusts his grip on his side. Blood glistens between his fingers.

“ReZonyx has a bounty out for you now,” he mutters, meeting his eyes. “That’s how this happened. Word’s everywhere. Every bottom-feeder in the city wants to be the one to drag you in and make big money.”

Jimin’s stomach sinks. “What? Why?”

Jungkook huffs, averting his eyes, wincing as he shifts and presses harder against his side.

“Beats me.”

Jimin frowns—and then it clicks.

“You’ve been taking too long,” he says flatly. “Your boss is pissed you haven’t brought me in yet.”

Jungkook gives a tired snort but doesn’t argue.

Jimin rubs a hand over his face.

“Great.”

Now it’s not just Jungkook. Now anyone he passes on the street could be after him. And judging by Jungkook’s bleeding side, some of them are already close. 

“Why don’t you just come back with me?” Jungkook says, voice dry. “Would save me a lot of trouble.”

“Yeah?” Jimin’s laugh is hollow. “Want me to gift-wrap myself too, so your boss has something nice to open, and you get back in his good graces?” He tilts his head. “Or is it the bounty you want?”

“I don’t care about the money.”

“Ah, it’s really just about your reputation then. About being a loyal little ReZonyx dog.”

He watches Jungkook’s jaw clench. 

He’s not surprised. As far as he knows, Jungkook has no one else. Jimin killed the only person who ever meant something to him, and now all there is is the company badge. A corporate leash around his neck and a long history of following orders.

Jimin would think it’s sad, if Jungkook wasn’t the reason he’s in this situation to begin with, if Jungkook wasn’t the one who dragged him out of the sea and destroyed his life. Sure, he did it for revenge, but what choice did Jimin have? Jungkook’s brother crossed into his waters, and that meant death. A siren’s instincts are tied to their territory as tightly as the tide is to the moon. There’s no mercy for trespassers. That’s the law of the sea.

“And what about it?” Jungkook shrugs. “It’s not like you have anywhere to go anyway.” 

Jimin stiffens, his throat going dry, his mouth filling with something bitter.

“I’m going home.” 

Jungkook looks at him for an oddly long and weirdly quiet moment, something unreadable flickering across his face. 

“The sea is gone, starfish.” 

The way he says it makes Jimin’s stomach drop. 

“Yeah—people keep telling me that.” He swallows around the tightness in his throat and turns away, looking out the murky window. But I can still feel it.

Jungkook looks peaceful like this. 

His head is tipped slightly to the side where it’s resting against the dirty glass, his face softer than Jimin’s ever seen it before. None of that usual tension in his jaw, none of the fire behind his eyes. Just long lashes casting faint shadows on his cheeks, his brows relaxed, lips parted slightly. 

This close, Jimin can see the scar in perfect detail.

The skin is pale there, with a faint silvery tone. The edges are clean, but it gets a little jagged in the middle, where Jimin’s claw must’ve gone the deepest. 

Jimin stares at that spot for a long moment before his eyes wander on. 

Jungkook has always had a striking appearance in Jimin’s opinion. He can admit that. Beauty is something that sirens know, and Jungkook is without a doubt beautiful. Even now that his skin looks rough in places. His face is covered in sweat and dirt, the faint shadow of stubble starting to form along his jaw. And it’s still. Very still.

Jimin hesitates, then reaches out, holding a finger under Jungkook’s nose, not having to wait long for the warm puff of air.

Still breathing.

He rocks back onto his heels, uncertain, the ache in his thighs a reminder of how long he’s been crouched here in front of Jungkook. The rain has let up a while ago, the acidic clouds gone, pale sunlight flirting through the dirt-caked windows now. It casts across the floor, catches on the green overgrowth, and on Jungkook’s face. 

Shortly after their conversation had fizzled out, Jungkook had peeled off his jacket, turned it inside out, and wrapped it tightly around his waist, probably to compress the bleeding. Then Jimin watched him struggle to stay conscious for a while before he eventually slumped sideways and passed out. 

By now the wound smells like it’s not bleeding anymore. 

Jimin worries his lower lip. 

He’s never felt this hesitant in his life. 

As a siren, he always knows what he wants, carried by instinct more often than thought. But this time, his instincts clash. One tells him to kill. Another urges him to lean in close and breathe in deep, to take in the scent of the sea clinging to Jungkook. There is this pull to watch life fade from Jungkook’s body, and then there is that strange, gnawing feeling that comes with imagining it.

His eyes drop to the gun on the ground next to Jungkook.

This is his chance. Jungkook is out cold, helpless. The gun is right there, he could just grab it, and—It would be so easy. A quick pull of the trigger and it’d be over. 

Or he could do it differently. He could take the earplugs out and sing. 

His hand moves before he fully registers it, reaching for the small clear piece of tech sitting in there snugly. 

But then, he stops. His fingertip trails along the hard plastic edge of the earplug, then across the shell of Jungkook’s ear.

The skin is soft and a little too warm, almost like Jungkook has a bit of a fever.  

Jimin swallows.

Then he shifts his weight and stands up, his knees popping from crouching too long. 

He glances down at Jungkook one last time, at his face slack with sleep, the scar catching the light. 

Killing him now wouldn’t be a victory. Killing him like this wouldn’t feel like payback, it would just feel—pathetic. 

So he quietly turns around and makes his way across the overgrown ground, stepping over vines and shattered tiles, not looking back as he slips out through the same broken glass panel he entered hours ago.

“The sea is gone, starfish.”

Jimin blinks up into the sky, the sun warm on his face.

Jungkook’s wrong.

He can still feel it, deep in his chest, low and steady. The pull of it. It’s out there somewhere. 

For a second, his thoughts drift to that human Jungkook talked about in a slurred haze all those years ago. His brother. The one who had a house in the mountains, who loved trees and stars and nature. Who wanted to live on a boat. 

Would he help Jimin find the sea, if he was still alive?

Chapter Text

The tub is too small. His tail keeps bumping into the end, folding awkwardly no matter how much he shifts or scoots back, and the chipped porcelain presses uncomfortably into his spine. But it’s water. 

Jimin exhales slowly, trying to sink a little deeper until the water sloshes over the rim of the tub and onto the floor.

The motel room is a dump. Stained wallpaper, sticky floor, a narrow bed with questionable sheets. He hadn’t expected the bathtub when he paid for the night, he just needed a place to crash after picking up a couple of rather exhausting delivery runs yesterday. The jobs weren’t great, but they paid enough for this room and a hot meal. He’d meant to eat and try to sleep. 

But the moment he stepped inside and saw the tub, sleeping was forgotten.  

It took forever to fill, the water pressure garbage, the pipes shrieking like they would burst any second, but eventually it was full. 

And now he’s here, back in his real shape, scales shimmering faintly under the bathroom light, the ends of his fins flicking below the surface. It’s cramped and uncomfortable, but it’s enough to make him feel somewhat alive.

He closes his eyes and lets the city melt off his skin, lets the grime bleed from his pores. 

The sea is still calling him. He feels it faintly, like a thread pulling at his chest, pulling him along, humming through him when he breathes. 

But no matter how far he’s wandered, he hasn’t been able to find it. And he doesn’t understand why. It’s close, he knows it is. Close enough to make him ache for it. But still, as always, out of reach.

He’s just about to drift off when a noise makes him jolt upright, eyes flying open.

The heavy thud of boots coming up the stairs. Definitely more than one pair. 

His heart leaps to his throat, because he knows instantly—

—they’re here for him.

He’s out of the tub in seconds, water sloshing violently over the side as he hauls himself up, his tail slapping and sliding across porcelain, pain flaring through his hips and spine as he forces the shift. His legs cramp and shake when they form.

There are voices now, coming from the corridor. 

He grabs the scratchy motel towel, and rubs it over his skin frantically. There is a faint knock at the door of the room next to his, and it doesn’t take long for his neighbor to open. 

“What?”

He hears the muffled response through the wall. 

“We’re looking for someone,” a male voice says. “Medium build. Long pink hair. You seen him?”

Jimin swears under his breath and drops the towel, bolting from the bathroom and stumbling to the chair in the corner, snatching up his clothes. Shirt first, then pants, his fingers fumbling with the zipper just as a sharp knock lands on his door.

He freezes.

What now?

The room doesn’t have any windows. No exit. Nowhere to run.

Maybe if he just stays quiet—

“This room empty?” 

“No,” the guest next door says. “I just heard someone moving around in there a few minutes ago.”

Jimin squeezes his eyes shut. Fucking hell.

Another knock, harder this time, rattling the cheap door on its hinges.

His heartbeat roars in his ears. He doesn’t know what to do.

For a split second, everything is silent. Then the door bursts open with a crack, the lock splintering as it slams into the wall. Three men stand in the threshold, dressed head to toe in black, everything about them screaming corporate muscle. 

Jimin’s eyes immediately catch the anti-siren tech in their ears.

“What the—I was just about to open,” he lies, trying to keep his voice steady as cold sweat forms on his palms. “Who the hell are you?!”

They size him up. One of them has a blond buzzcut and a scar slicing through his eyebrow. Another wears mirrored sunglasses, despite the dim hallway. The third – older and a bit shorter than the others – chews gum like he’s bored out of his mind.

Their eyes sweep over him, and he’s sure he matches the description they were given. Except for the hair. But everyone knows an obvious haircolor like pink is easily taken care of. 

Buzzcut speaks first. “You staying here alone?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Answer the question.” 

Jimin shrugs. “Yeah. I’m here alone.”

“Checked in last night?”

“Yes. Is there a problem?”

Sunglasses tilts his head. “What are you doing in the area?”

“Just passing through.” Jimin keeps his tone even. “Now, if you don’t mind telling me what–hey!” He stumbles to the side when the guy with the buzzcut suddenly shoves past him.

“I don’t think this is allowed,” he snaps, watching them enter his room one after another. 

Gum-chewer snorts as he walks past him. “Sure. You can file a complaint later.”

Sunglasses heads straight for the bathroom.

Jimin’s stomach drops. “Wait—”

Too late.

The bathroom door swings open, revealing the tub filled to the brim and the water pooled on the floor.

All three turn to him at once.

“Get him.”

Jimin moves before his mind has even caught up to the situation. He spins on his heels and bolts, bare feet thudding across the stained motel carpet as he runs past the guy next door, sprints down the stairwell, and leaps over the last four steps. Pain shoots through his ankle as he lands, but he doesn’t stop.

Running through the dusty lobby he catches a glimpse of the startled motel owner before he crashes into the front door, throwing it open. 

Heavy boots pound behind him as he stumbles out onto the roadside.

The afternoon sun casts long shadows across the cracked road and overgrown weeds. The area’s deserted – no buildings, no trees, no cover, nothing but the stretch of empty asphalt ahead.

Jimin runs, heart pounding, throat raw. He needs to find a place to hide. 

Behind him, an engine roars to life.

He glances over his shoulder, watching a black car speed after him, closing the distance fast.

They catch up to him in seconds, one of the guys jumping from the moving car and slamming into his side, sending them both crashing to the ground. The breath is knocked from his lungs as he skids through the dirt and loose gravel. A weight pins him down, a knee in his back, rough hands grabbing his wrists.

“Gotcha.”

He thrashes, kicks, hisses, tries to twist free, but someone grabs his ankles, and then there’s a sharp jab in his upper arm. 

“No,” he chokes out, twisting his head around just in time to see the needle clatter to the ground. It stinks of sedatives. “No—”

He chokes on the dust kicked up around them, feels the sedatives travel through his body, his muscles relaxing, his vision swimming, panic knotting tight in his chest—

Then a sharp crack echoes through the air, so loud that it makes Jimin’s ears ring. 

A gunshot. 

For a second, he thinks he’s been shot at by them, but then he hears their startled voices.

“What the–?”

“Who the fuck–?”

Jimin turns his head, blinks dust from his eyes.

There, walking toward them, lit by the afternoon sun behind him, is Jungkook.

His gun is drawn, eyes locked on the men holding Jimin down. He’s limping a little, although, if you wouldn’t know better you’d never notice. Just a small hitch in his step.

“Back off. He’s mine.”

“Ah, Jeon!” One of the guys hollers. “Looking a lot better than last time I saw you. How the hell did you survive that storm, huh?” 

“Last warning.” Jungkook adjusts the grip on his gun. “I’m the one bringing him back to ReZonyx.”

Darkness creeps into the corners of Jimin’s vision, the sounds around him distant and warped. Above him, Buzzcut lets out a dry laugh.

“ReZonyx? Yeah, we’re not interested in that little bounty.”

There is confusion in Jungkook’s voice. “What?”

“Let’s just say there are better ways to cash in on a siren if you know what you’re doing.”

“He’s ReZonyx property.”

The grip around Jimin’s wrists tightens. “Not anymore he isn’t. ReZonyx lost their chance the second he slipped through their fingers.”

Jimin wants to speak, wants to tell them all to go to hell, that he’s nobody’s fucking property. But the words stay trapped behind his teeth, his tongue numb. His limbs feel distant, too heavy to move. The world tilts.

Then everything goes dark.

The first thing Jimin hears is the pounding.

A dull, rhythmic thud that rattles through his bones, his skull. 

It takes him a moment to realize it’s not just inside his head.

It’s somewhere close to him, the distinct sharp clatter of metal being hit, and it mixes with another sound. A bit deeper, more chaotic. Shouting.

His eyelids flutter when he peels them open, the sight of a flickering strip of light above him making the pounding in his temples spike. His tongue feels dry, stuck to the roof of his mouth. He winces at the sound of another slam reverberating around him and turns his heavy head, blinking against the blur. Shapes begin to form, revealing movement. A figure, broad-shouldered and tall.

“Hey!” The person shouts. 

Something in the sound of the voice tugs at Jimin’s fogged mind, familiar even through the haze. The stance, the way the person moves.

Jungkook.

“Hey!” Jungkook shouts again, then louder: “You gonna regret this, you hear me?!”

There’s the muffled sound of someone replying, followed by retreating footsteps.

Jungkook slams both fists against something that looks suspiciously like a closed door. 

“Fucker.”

Then he turns, his eyes finding Jimin. He has lost his jacket somewhere, only wearing a black tank top, his shoulder red and purpley-blue as if he took a hit against his upper arm. There’s a nasty gash on the left side of his forehead, blood running down his temple and into his eye. He wipes at it with a short, irritated huff.

“Ah. Sleeping beauty’s finally with us.”

Jimin pushes up onto his elbows, his movements still sluggish from the sedatives as he looks around, trying to make sense of what’s going on.  

The room is rather small, almost a little claustrophobic. The walls are smooth, dark metal that swallows the harsh light from overhead. The floor is solid and cold beneath his palms as he sits up, his eyes wandering over the narrow bed on one side of the room, topped with a bare mattress. Beside it, a small sink drips into a drain, and in the corner, a toilet sits in plain view.

There are no windows. Just a vent near the ceiling and a door right below it, that’s set flush into the wall, no keyhole, just a faint red glow around the handle and the low hum of whatever tech is keeping it locked. 

Jungkook is still standing beside it, only a few steps away, glaring at him like every bit of this is his fault. It takes Jimin’s sluggish mind a few tries to catch up—to push through the haze and piece together the fragments of memory.

The motel. The bathtub. The door being broken in by some thugs.

Jungkook. The road, the dust in his eyes. Sedatives.

“ReZonyx? Yeah, we’re not interested in that little bounty—There are better ways to cash in on a siren if you know what you’re doing.”

Shit. Whoever these people are, they’re the ones who locked him up here. And for some reason, they’ve put him in here with Jungkook.

Jimin’s voice comes out rough when he speaks, his throat bone dry.

“Where are we?”

“Do I look like I know?” Jungkook grumbles, swiping the back of his hand over his brow to keep more blood from running into his eye. Then he pushes away from the door and crosses the room in a few long strides, his boots thudding dully against the floor.

“You were the one who was conscious,” Jimin scoffs as he leans back against the cold wall, the movement making his stomach turn with a wave of nausea. He clenches his teeth. 

“It’s not like they handed me an itinerary,” Jungkook mutters, dropping down against the wall opposite to Jimin. With a grimace, he grabs the hem of his top and drags it up, pressing the fabric to the bleeding gash at his forehead. The motion leaves his stomach bare, muscles pulling tight under sweat-slicked skin, the spot where he was shot a few weeks ago a dark mark surrounded by fading bruises.

Jimin averts his eyes, even though his kind don’t usually flinch away from nakedness. Bare skin has never meant shame to him. Bodies are instruments – for pleasure, hunger, violence. But this—this is different. Jungkook – his captor, his hunter – exposed in such a careless way. It makes his toes tingle, a restless spark running up his spine that he doesn’t know what to do with. 

For some reason, his eyes are drawn back to Jungkook only a few seconds later. And that’s when he catches the faint gleam of earplugs. 

They’ve let him keep his anti-siren tech. Why? 

If he’s a prisoner, why bother protect him from Jimin’s voice?

Jimin frowns. 

Something doesn’t add up. 

He doesn’t sleep. 

Sitting propped up against the wall, he rests his head back and angled toward the ceiling, watching the pale strip of light stutter and flicker. Every so often it buzzes with a faint static hum that starts getting pretty annoying after a while.

Across from him, Jungkook sits with one leg drawn up and the other stretched across the floor, an arm draped loosely over his bent knee. His head rests back against the wall too, eyes closed, but his breathing is too shallow for him to be asleep. Like Jimin, he’s only waiting—ready for whatever comes next. The bleeding at his forehead has slowed to a dark crust along his temple, leaving only a faint trace of iron in the air. Still, Jimin is overly aware of the smell, mixing with the scent of salt and the tide. 

They sit in silence, neither of them speaking, and Jimin hears the footsteps outside the door before Jungkook’s human ears can catch them. Which is probably why Jungkook flinches a little when the lock hisses. The faint red glow around the handle blinks out, replaced by a steady green. A low mechanical groan, then the door slides open. 

Four figures enter, clad in matte-black combat gear. Helmets seal their faces, visors dark, each one of them bulked out with body armor, rifles in hand, shock batons clipped to their hips.

Two take position at either side of the door while the other two step further inside. All four rifles swing up, aiming at Jungkook. 

Jimin almost feels insulted—no one bothers aiming at him?!

Only a second later though, he catches the faint glow of wires running beneath the plastic of their helmets. Anti-siren tech.

One of the soldiers breaks formation, lowering the rifle and striding toward Jimin. 

“Up,” a voice orders, distorted through the helmet but unmistakably female, as a leather-gloved hand clamps hard around his arm and hauls him to his feet.

“Where are you taking me? What is this?” Jimin demands as they drag him toward the door. He struggles, but their grip is bruisingly tight, and he catches Jungkook’s eyes on him just before the door seals behind them.

The corridor outside is a jarring contrast to the cell: sterile white walls that gleam under harsh clinical light, floors so polished it’s almost like they’re walking on a mirror. The air is thin, recycled too many times, carrying a faint stench of chemicals that turns Jimin’s stomach.

His arms throb where they grab him so tightly, and his bare heels skid against the smooth floor whenever he stumbles. Around him, the space hums with the mechanical noise of ventilation and filtration, and from somewhere in the distance comes the echo of orders being shouted. 

When they finally reach the end of the hallway, a reinforced mechanical door hisses open, and they drag him through it into a wider room. He doesn’t even have time to orient himself, has barely taken notice of the metal chair in the middle of the room, before he’s shoved into it. The impact makes the chair skid a few inches across the floor, nearly toppling him with it. He catches himself just in time, and when he looks up, rifles are already trained on him – aiming not at his chest or head, but at his arms and legs. Not meant to kill, just to hurt.

“Guys,” a female voice tuts. “Is this a way to treat our guest?”

Jimin blinks as he looks around, watching a woman step through a door at the far end of the room. Her heels click against the spotless floor, her frame fitted in a dark, tailored dress-suit. Blonde hair is pulled back into a tight, glossy bun, not a strand out of place.

She stops in front of him, and when she looks at the soldiers surrounding him, her white earplugs glow faintly.

“Lower your weapons.” Her tone is smooth as glass when she speaks, and then her gaze shifts back to him. “Jimin.” Her bright red lips curve into a flat smile. “We’ve all been waiting for you.”

Jimin frowns. “Who the hell is we?”

Her smile widens, her canines flashing silver. A human body modification Jimin had considered for himself a few months ago, back when he’d passed a shop window advertising the procedure. He missed his fangs whenever he was stuck in human form. Those weak little teeth drove him mad. He thought maybe he could have had them filed sharper, and reinforced with silver. Then he saw the price tag. He’d never turned around faster in his life.

“Ah. Where are my manners.” Her manicured hand makes a sweeping gesture across the room. “Welcome to EchoBlack. We’re looking forward to working with you.”

Jimin’s eyes trail after her movement, scanning the space, drifting over the visibly soundproofed walls, the embedded mics glowing faintly in the corners.

He recognizes it immediately, even though the room is larger than the one he remembers, even though the equipment is stamped with the red EchoBlack logo instead of the neon yellow ReZonyx.

His stomach twists.

A recording studio.

The same purpose, dressed in a different skin.

He swallows hard, nausea creeping up his throat, his palms turning clammy as his grip around the cold metal armrest tightens. For a heartbeat he swears he can feel it again – the phantom ache of his voice being torn out of him.

“Working with me,” he scoffs, though the shake in his voice betrays him. “That’s what you call it?”

The woman tilts her head, regarding him like a specimen under glass.

“You’ll find we value collaboration here. You’ll be paid nicely.” She steps closer, extending a manicured hand. “My name is Amara Klyne. One of the heads of EchoBlack. Director of Acquisitions.”

Jimin stares at the hand but doesn’t move. His scowl deepens.

“Acquisition—You abducted me.”

Amara’s smile sharpens as she pulls back her hand, unbothered.

“We discover potential. We give it purpose.” She gestures lazily toward the glowing mics in the corners. “And your purpose, Jimin, is extraordinary. A gift wasted at ReZonyx, squandered in back-alley clubs. Here, we can refine it. Amplify it. Sell it on a larger scale.” Her lips curl wider. “Sell you. You’ll be a real star, Jimin.”

“Not interested.”

Her smile doesn’t falter. It sits on her face like it’s been sewn there, almost creepily so.

“I fear you have no choice.”

The words land like ice down his spine. He forces himself to meet her gaze, though his palms are clammy against the arms of the chair. No choice. He’s heard that before. ReZonyx had said it, too, right before they put the collar on him that dug into his skin and ripped his voice out of him.

“I won’t sing for you.” There is a tightness in his throat he can’t hide.

Amara only tilts her head.

“We’ll see about that.” 

She snaps her fingers. Two soldiers step forward, and before Jimin can react, his wrists are slammed against the armrests. Thick cuffs clamp down automatically with a hiss after one of them presses a button. He yanks hard, but the restraints don’t budge. 

Then he flinches back as bluish light audibly crackles to life in the soldier’s hand – a shock baton fizzing with an electric current.

Amara smiles sweetly, arms folding across her chest. “Still not singing?”

Jimin glares up at her, his pulse pounding in his throat. 

“Never,” he spits.

“This is going to hurt, Jimin.”

“Bring it on.”

She only shrugs, looking almost bored, and gestures for the guys to continue.

The first strike lands across his side. Pain explodes through him, white-hot, blinding, every nerve lit up at once. His muscles seize, his back arches against the chair, breath stolen from his lungs as his ribs feel like they’re splintering from the inside out. A broken cry wrenches free, raw and ugly, before the current cuts out. He slumps into himself, chest heaving, sweat already beading across his brows.

“Sing.” Amara’s voice cuts through the rush in his ears.

“No,” he gasps.

“Again.”

The next jolt slams into his shoulder. His vision swims, black spots bursting at the edges, and his jaw locks so tight he tastes copper where his teeth slice into his tongue. 

“Sing,” someone else snarls, the baton pressing harder into him before flaring again. His chest bows, every nerve screaming.

And then darkness creeps in fast, his head drooping forward as the world narrows into a tunnel of light and dull sound. 

But even through pounding in his skull, clarity cuts through: These people have no idea what they’re doing. 

ReZonyx had known how to wrench songs from him, had perfected their collar. 

EchoBlack doesn’t know anything. 

All their brutality will ever get them is an unconscious siren in a chair.

A raw laugh rattles out of him, his mouth filling with blood. He spits it onto the floor between his legs, his lips curling.

“You’re pathetic.”

Then the darkness takes him.

When he comes to, the first thing he notices is the scent of the sea, and it doesn’t take his mind long to reconnect to the present.

He blinks his eyes open, licks his dry lip, tasting the copper tang of old blood. He’s on the narrow bed in their cell, the mattress hard as stone, the light strips overhead humming. A groan scrapes out of his raw throat as he pushes upright. His ribs and shoulder throb where the electric current had hit him, muscles still twitching in faint aftershocks, wrists tender from the cuffs.

The room tilts when he sits fully. He squeezes his eyes shut, fighting the spin, debating whether to lie back down—until a sound makes him turn his head.

Across the cell, Jungkook sits with his back to the wall, arms folded across his chest, dark eyes fixed on Jimin beneath furrowed brows. The cut on his forehead is clean now, and someone has apparently given him a fresh shirt.

“What are you looking at?” Jimin mumbles, dragging his legs over the edge of the mattress.

Jungkook’s frown deepens. He tips his chin toward the floor on his left. 

“They brought us food.”

Jimin follows the gesture. A tray sits on the floor, stacked on top of another one that’s already empty. It holds a chunk of bread, a slab of weirdly pale protein loaf, and a cup of water.

Jimin’s empty stomach squeezes, and he presses a palm to the mattress to rise carefully, moving slowly so the dizziness doesn’t knock him back down. 

“Lucky us,” he mutters as he shuffles across the floor and drops onto the ground near Jungkook, leaning against the wall, the tray creating some kind of barrier between them.

He reaches for the bread with trembling fingers, tears off a piece, and chews. It tastes dry and lifeless, crumbling in his mouth, and when it mixes with the blood still lingering on his tongue, he grimaces. He forces it down anyway, then takes a sip of water. It’s lukewarm but it clears his throat.

“What did they do?” 

The question startles Jimin and he lifts his gaze to look at Jungkook, who is still frowning at him. Then he shrugs.

“None of your business.” He rips another chunk of bread off and pushes it into his mouth. 

Jungkook is the last person he’d hand any kind of weakness to. 

The days blur.

It’s always the same: dragged from the cell, wrists locked down, the hiss of a shock baton sparking to life. Pain until unconsciousness. He wakes on the narrow bed, throat burning, ribs aching, Jungkook watching him – always there when Jimin drags himself upright again. 

In between, they change tactics. A shower, a tray with real food – vegetables, rice, meat. A new mattress, less like stone, and a blanket.

Amara tries charm. Invites him into her office, a glass-and-chrome box with a view over neon-lit rooftops, shelves lined with expensive bottles and data pads stacked in perfect order. She smiles over a cup of coffee, talks about contracts, numbers that would make him rich.

When she realizes it isn’t working, it’s back to the chair. Back to the baton. Back to the electric current that rattles his bones and tears the breath from his lungs.

Wake. Pain. Blackout. Repeat.

And every time he opens his eyes in the cell, Jungkook is still there—arms crossed, gaze fixed on him, like he’s cataloging every crack in Jimin’s body.

Why is he even here? 

Jimin can’t make sense of it. 

Jungkook being EchoBlack’s prisoner – fine, that tracks. He’s ReZonyx, their rival’s dog, so it would make sense to cage him. But to cage him with Jimin? That feels kind of—careless. 

Unless it isn’t. Unless it’s deliberate.

Maybe it’s supposed to be another kind of torture? Another way to keep Jimin off-balance.

Or maybe Jungkook isn’t a prisoner at all. Maybe he’s working with them, and they’ve put him here to watch Jimin, to report on Jimin growing weaker.

The thought gnaws at him whenever he catches Jungkook’s gaze across the cell, steady, unblinking, like he’s waiting for Jimin to break. The longer it goes on, the more certain Jimin becomes: Jungkook is definitely spying on him. 

He believes it – up until the night he jolts awake after another couple of hours in the studio, and finds Jungkook slumped against the wall of their cell. 

The sight almost startles Jimin.

Jungkook’s face is wrecked: bruises blooming dark across his jaw, one on his cheekbone, his left eyelid puffed and swollen, his shirt is torn, one sleeve hanging loose off his shoulder where the fabric’s been ripped. 

The words leave Jimin before he can stop them. 

“What the hell happened?”

Jungkook’s lips press into a thin line. His eyes flick away, jaw working once before he mutters, “None of your business.” – throwing Jimin’s own words right back at him.

From that day on, every time Jimin wakes in the cell, Jungkook looks worse. The bruises spread, dark blotches that are never given the time to heal. His jaw is purple and green, cuts split open again and again.

Jimin almost feels bad for him. Almost.

But sirens don’t pity like that.

Besides—he has enough to deal with on his own. 

He keeps slipping, each session leaving him weaker, slower to come back. Once it was so bad he only woke when Jungkook grabbed his shoulder and shook him, rough and impatient. Jimin startled awake, disoriented, only to find Jungkook staring down at him with something unreadable in his eyes before turning away without a word.

He sleeps more now, his body heavier every time he lies down. He feels dried out from the inside, his skin tight, his bones aching. His body craves the caress of water more than it ever has before, the pull to shift back into his siren form gnawing at him. 

And somehow, the sight of Jungkook all bruised and battered makes it even worse. It irritates him beyond reason, an itch he can’t scratch, a buzzing that won’t leave him alone. Somehow, he finds himself counting the marks, each fresh bruise feeling like an insult. 

How dare Jungkook allow those useless humans to lay hands on him. How dare they leave their mark on skin that isn’t theirs.

The irritation burns even hotter when, one night, he wakes up and Jungkook isn’t there.

Jimin stares around the empty room for a long time, unsettled. Confused. His stomach drops with something heavy, though he can’t say why.

He jumps when the door hisses, and Jungkook is shoved inside. He stumbles forward and hits the floor on his hands and knees with a grunt. Blood drips everywhere as he drags himself to the far wall, collapsing against it with a hiss, eyes closed. His nose is bleeding, his lip split, his shirt rucked up high enough to expose ribs so bruised they make Jimin’s anger flare hot. 

“Are you dead?” He asks, his words coming out clipped. 

There is a scoff, followed by a wet cough. 

“You wish.”

Jimin clicks his tongue. He leans over, grabs one of the cloths from the sink they sometimes provide, and hauls it in Jungkook’s general direction. 

“Clean yourself up. You’re disgusting to look at.”

Jungkook groans as he shifts upright, fingers visibly shaking as he takes the fabric and dabs at his mouth. He winces, then presses the cloth to his bleeding nose. His eyes flick to Jimin, staring at him for a long moment before speaking up. 

“Why aren’t you singing for them?”

Jimin blinks. 

So Jungkook knows what’s going on. 

“Why would I?”

“They’re hurting you.”

Jimin shrugs. Pain he can live with. A siren’s mind isn’t broken by something as simple as pain. Blacking out doesn’t scare him either—he almost welcomes it. And he knows they won’t kill him. What eats at him is the weakness creeping into his bones, the dryness inside him, the need for water.

“And?” He says flatly. 

Jungkook chuckles, wincing as he pushes higher against the wall, his arm clutching his side.

“Yeah—I guess I get that.”

Jimin frowns and lets his gaze travel over Jungkook’s bruised form. He’s come to the conclusion by now that Jungkook is stuck in a similar boat as him, tortured for something he won’t give up. The question is what.

“Why are they hurting you?”

Jungkook stills, not meeting Jimin’s eyes as his tongue flicks over the cut in the corner of his mouth. Silence stretches, and Jimin is just about to give up and push to his feet to reach for the tray of food, when Jungkook speaks up again.  

“They want information from me. On how to make you sing.” 

He glances sideways at Jimin.

Jimin feels his brows shoot up. Then he scoffs. 

Of course. That makes sense. 

With how little they obviously know, Jungkook’s expertise would be helpful. That’s why they’re keeping him here. And that’s why they let him keep his anti-siren tech. They can’t have Jimin kill him. 

“They want to know how you did it back then,” he chuckles humorlessly. 

Jungkook nods, and something bitter burns up Jimin’s throat.

“And you didn’t tell them? Didn’t want them to know how you forced me?” His voice rises, breaking at the edges, his fingers curling into the edge of the mattress. “That you used a–”

“Shut it.” Jungkook interrupts sharply, his eyes snapping up, glaring at Jimin. “These walls have ears.”

Jimin bites his tongue, swallowing the rest, cursing himself for almost handing over the truth to them. 

This is probably the reason why they put them in here together. They are hoping for them to talk, and for one of them to slip up. 

He swallows. The thought of wearing that collar again – the heavy weight around his neck, the agony of his vocal cords seizing and being forced to vibrate – makes his stomach twist.

“Why haven’t you told them, though? I bet they promised you a great sum.”

Jungkook doesn’t answer. He presses the cloth harder to his bleeding nose, pulls it away to look at the mess, then shoves it back quickly when blood starts dripping again. He won’t meet Jimin’s eyes.

A sharp laugh tears out of Jimin’s throat.  

“Ah, I see. A loyal ReZonyx soldier until the end, huh?”

Jungkook glares at him, cloth still pressed to his bleeding nose.

“They’re all I have left. You made sure of that.”

It takes Jimin a moment to understand he’s talking about his brother.

He scoffs. “So now it’s my fault.”

“Of course it’s your fucking fault,” Jungkook hisses.

They’ve had this fight before. Countless times. When Jimin was still caged in that ReZonyx tank.

“I already told you—he shouldn’t have entered my waters. If anyone’s at fault, it’s him.” Jimin watches the way Jungkook’s eyes darken at his words. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice.”

“No. Not when you’re a siren. It’s in my nature. It’s instinct.”

“Instinct.” Jungkook spits the word like it’s poison, tossing the cloth into the corner beside him, leaning forward despite the pain it must cause him. “You know what, Jimin? I think you’re full of shit.” His laugh is bitter, cracking at the edges, blood still staining his nose and lips. “If it’s all just instinct, then why didn’t you kill me that day during the storm?”

The cell goes quiet, the question hanging heavy in the air like the stink of blood.

Jimin stares at him, wants to retort something, but the words are jammed in his throat. 

Because he doesn't know. 

He clearly remembers Jungkook unconscious, weak, suffering from a gunshot wound. A kill served up on a silver platter, a kill that would’ve made so many things so much easier for him.

And yet he didn’t do it.

And he doesn’t know why exactly. 

He remembers the excuses he made to himself – that it was too easy, not enough of a challenge.

Yet, he clearly remembers going against his instincts when he walked away that day.

The memory fills his chest, sticky and sour. He hates the feeling.

“Shouldn’t you be glad?” He asks instead of answering Jungkook’s question. 

Jungkook’s eyes narrow, a bitter smile tugging at his swollen lip. 

“Glad I owe my life to the monster who drowned my brother?”

Jimin’s teeth click together. 

“Call me what you want. Doesn’t change the fact you’re still breathing because I showed you mercy. You’re welcome.”

“And why did you show me mercy but not him? Why haven’t you killed me in here—” Jungkook gestures around the cell. “There’ve been many opportunities, no?”

Jimin hates the way Jungkook kicks loose questions in his mind that he doesn’t have answers to. He’s never spared a human’s life before. That much is true. Why now? And why has the thought of killing Jungkook here in this cell – ripping his earbuds out when he’s beaten and weak, singing for him – never even crossed his mind?

His throat tightens, and he looks away, heat crawling under his skin. He feels cornered, and he doesn’t like it. 

“If you haven’t noticed, I’ve been kind of preoccupied,” he mumbles at last, the words flat and oddly defensive.

Jungkook lets out a hoarse laugh.

“So what I’m hearing is, it’s not all about instinct after all. Which means—you killed him for fun.”

Jimin huffs. “Would it make you feel better if I did, huh? What do you want me to say?”

“How about a fucking apology?” Jungkook snaps. “How about a sorry for ending my brother’s life?”

Jimin blinks, his lips parting. He watches the way Jungkook’s mouth clicks shut, jaw working like he regrets the words, fingers curling against the floor. For a moment, he looks unguarded, stripped open in a way Jimin has never seen before.

The word rattles around in Jimin’s head. Sorry. Humans throw it around like it’s worth something, like a single word could rewind a choice, erase blood. He doesn’t understand what it’s supposed to do. And it’s not like he would mean it anyway. He doesn’t feel guilty. He isn’t wired for compassion. His body runs on instinct, hunger, survival. At least—at least he thinks it does. Either way, an apology is nothing. It won’t bring a brother back.

“How would that help?”

At that, Jungkook’s furrowed brows slowly relax. He blinks, then seems to fold inward, shoulders slumping against the wall. He looks pale now, his skin nearly the same shade as the silvery scar Jimin carved into his face all those years ago.

 “I don’t know.”

“I’m pleased to say we’ve developed a new approach,” Amara tells him as they strap him down. Her smile is razor-thin, her white earbuds glowing faintly. “Something a little closer to home.”

Jimin frowns, shifting against the restraints, but she’s out the door before he can ask any questions.

He blinks in confusion when the lights dim, and is already bracing himself for the first hit of electric current, when instead a projection bleeds across every surface. Water. Waves rolling in fractured shimmer, the ceiling glittering as if sunlight filters through. The artificial scent of salt thickens the air, carried on the recycled breeze, clinging to his tongue, his throat.

He stares, then barks out a laugh.

“You think this will work? A picture show and some artificial scents?”

But the longer he sits, the more it grates at him. The sound of the tide rising and falling coming from hidden speakers, rhythmic, almost—almost right. Salt coats his mouth, scratching at something deep inside.

It’s a cheap trick, he tells himself.

And yet his chest aches with the urge to answer. His throat tightens. His lungs strain against his ribs. He presses his lips together, willing it down, panic surging when his throat throbs, ready to break into song without his permission. 

His body wants normalcy. It wants to sing to the ocean, wants to hear it answer back.

It’s not real, he tells his body, but it doesn’t understand. 

The ache spreads, a heavy pressure in his chest, a need.

This cheap copy is close enough to trigger the hunger inside him but empty enough to leave him raw, sick with yearning. His muscles tremble against the restraints, and he drops his head forward as he squeezes his eyes shut.

Make it stop.

When the session finally ends, when the lights snap on and the waves vanish, the absence is almost worse. 

It’s the first time he’s fully conscious when they drag him back to the cell, and yet he’s never felt more out of it. His legs give out when they shove him inside and he sinks down on the floor by the door, his breath rattling in his chest. 

Across the room, Jungkook stares at him in confusion, fresh bruises littering his face, and Jimin turns away. He doesn’t want to be seen like this.

They keep trying. 

Over and over again the studio drowns him in its false sea – waves projected across the walls, salt mist pumped through vents, the rise and fall of an artificial tide echoing from hidden speakers, again and again until the hours blur.

It scrapes him raw. It drains him.

His stomach knots constantly. Food sits untouched more often than not, and when he forces himself to chew, it tastes like ash, dry and heavy, refusing to go down. Sleep isn’t much better. It's restless and most of the time he jolts awake after only a few hours, drenched in sweat, his heart hammering, and his lungs straining like he’s been choking. 

Whenever he startles upright, Jungkook is already awake across the cell, watching him with that deep frown. Jimin always turns away.

Each time they drag him back from the studio, he feels less like himself. It feels like his entire being is fading away. His chest aches constantly now, with an emptiness nothing can satisfy. His whole body screams for the ocean – real water, the real current—not the cruel copy EchoBlack keeps feeding him.

He hates how weak he’s becoming. 

Hates how every movement feels slower, how his hands tremble, how his legs ache when he stands.

And most of all, he hates that Jungkook sees it.

He knows he does. His sharp eyes are always on him, following every shudder, every stumble, every time Jimin has to steady himself against the wall. Jimin hates being watched like this. He hates that Jungkook gets to see him unraveling, nothing but a shadow of what he used to be.

And yet—whenever he’s back in the cell, something eases. Not much, but enough for his body to notice. Here, the salt in the air isn’t fake. It carries the wind, the current, the sun on glittering water—Jungkook’s scent.

Coming back to the cell, to him, almost feels like relief. It steadies him a little, grounds him when the ache in his chest claws too deep.

Until it doesn’t.

He’s not sure what made this session so bad, but when they dump him back into the cell like dead weight, and the door hisses shut, Jimin can’t move. 

The world spins, his chest heaves, his breaths tearing short, sharp, useless. His ribs scream with each hitch, darkness creeping in and out of his vision. 

“Starfish.” Jungkook’s voice cuts through the haze, dull and far away. “Hey. Breathe.”

Jimin tries, but he can’t see anything, and his body won’t listen. 

A hand clamps down on his arm, dragging him upright. His head lolls, vision swimming as his shoulder knocks into something solid. 

Suddenly, he’s engulfed by the scent of the sea. 

Home. 

“Jimin, you need to breathe,” Jungkook says, close to his ear now, his grip tight to keep Jimin from collapsing sideways again.

Jimin’s throat works soundlessly. His hands lift blindly, searching, grasping, until they close on fabric. He yanks forward with what little strength he has, pulls Jungkook into him, clutching at his shirt like a lifeline. His face finds the heat of skin, the curve of a throat, and he drags in a shuddering breath. Salt. Wind. Seashells and Stone. Home. 

The next inhale comes easier. The next steadier. His chest still heaves, but with every pull of that scent, the panic ebbs away, little by little. 

Jungkook doesn’t move, all stiff and rigid, but he also doesn’t shove him off. 

So Jimin stays there, trembling, nose pressed to his skin, inhaling until the dizziness dulls and his body finally—finally—starts to believe it isn’t suffocating. 

“What are they doing to you?”

“None of your business,” Jimin rasps breathlessly. 

It happens again. And again. And again.

He always comes back broken, and every time, he finds his way to Jungkook.

He's not even thinking about it, his mind too clouded, body driven by instinct. He just presses close, inhales until salt and tide fill his head and his lungs, steadying him. 

When the haze finally lifts, he pulls back, irritation at himself crawling under his skin.

Jungkook never says anything. He lets him breathe him in as much as he lets him push off a while later. Jimin can only imagine how confused he must be. He can’t possibly know how he smells to Jimin, and he also doesn’t know what they do to Jimin to make him come back like this, desperate for an anchor.

Jimin is confused himself—why Jungkook lets him this close in the first place, why he never pushes him off. Something about it unsettles him, but he won’t bring it up, refuses to think about it too long. Just as he refuses to dwell on how much he hates that Jungkook’s scent so often carries blood. Sweet and coppery, edged with the sour sting of pain.

He tells himself he hates it because it ruins the scent, because it taints the clean salt of the sea—not because Jungkook is getting hurt.

One day, his ‘session’ ends early due to a malfunction in the studio’s projection system. A fact that fills him with glee. He comes back to the cell earlier, less hollow than usual, but his hands are still trembling, and a dull ache pounds in his skull.

He doesn’t look at Jungkook when he stumbles inside, but he can feel his eyes on him as he makes his way to the bed, sinking onto the edge of it.

“You—okay?” Jungkook asks eventually. 

Jimin swallows and nods. “I'm fine.” He feels nauseous, dizzy, so he closes his eyes, swaying where he’s sitting.

“Hey, starfish.” Jungkook’s voice is closer now, a hand landing on his shoulder. “It’s okay if you–”

Jimin jerks away. 

“I said I’m fine.”

He pushes to his feet, takes a single step before his legs buckle. The floor tilts to meet him, but Jungkook’s hand clamps around his arm, hauling him upright.

“And I said it’s okay.”

Jungkook’s grip doesn’t falter, even when Jimin twists weakly against it, still refusing to meet his eyes. Usually, he’s too far gone to care about showing weakness. But his mind is too clear now not to care. This gnaws at his pride.

He snarls when Jungkook pulls him in, jaw clenching tight. He hates this. Hates himself more when he lets it happen—when he lets himself fall forward, his forehead knocking clumsily against Jungkook’s shoulder. 

Then he buries his face in the curve of his neck and drags in a breath.

The scent works like balm on raw skin. Jimin breathes it in, again and again, until the knot in his chest eases, until the trembling slows, until the dizziness lifts. Only the heavy hammer of his heartbeat remains the same.

And now that he isn’t so far gone as usual, he feels other things too. The way Jungkook’s arms lock tight around him. The rise and fall of Jungkook’s chest against his. The thrum of his pulse right there, beneath Jimin’s lips.

He blinks his eyes open.

Does he always end up this close? Mouth brushing skin like this?

Should he stop?

Just a little longer.

He feels Jungkook’s hand shift at his back, sliding higher, fingers splaying over Jimin’s nape as if to steady him—or hold him closer. Warmth seeps into his skin where their bodies touch, and for one dizzying moment, Jimin feels almost—almost good. Like the heaviness in his chest might ease completely if he just lets himself stay here.

The thought startles him so badly he shifts back, but while trying to pull away, his nose grazes Jungkook’s jaw. Jungkook’s head dips at the touch, eyes catching his, and suddenly their mouths are only a breath apart.

For a moment, they both freeze, the air between them humming with something heavy. Jungkook's eyes are wide, kind of dark and unreadable. Then his lips part, before they close again, no sound coming out. His gaze flicks down to Jimin’s mouth before snapping back up. A muscle in his cheek jumps, his throat bobbing with a swallow, and Jimin feels the faint twitch of his fingers where they still rest against the back of his neck.

That’s when Jimin jerks back, tearing himself free, his pulse hammering in his throat so loud it drowns everything else out.

What the hell? 

He scrubs a hand down his face, as if he could wipe the moment away, trying to shake himself out of it. Then he drops heavily to the floor against the wall. He doesn’t look at Jungkook, instead he fumbles for the tray left on the ground, fingers clumsy, searching for anything to ground himself.

“Thank you,” he eventually mutters, mostly because he doesn’t know what else to say.  

Usually, sirens don’t thank anyone, especially not humans. The taste of the words is strange in his mouth, bitter and heavy. Like surrender. He shoves a bite of protein bar between his teeth before he can think about it more. The dry texture clings to his tongue, mixing with the bitterness. He grimaces as he forces it down.

He feels Jungkook’s eyes on him a moment longer, before his footsteps retreat to the opposite side of the room, where he slides down the wall with a quiet groan. Jimin’s eyes flick up before he can stop himself. Only now he notices that Jungkook’s face looks less battered this time – just a bruise under one eye, a cut scabbed over at his lip – but his neck tells a different story. Finger-shaped marks wrap around the column of his throat, dark against his skin, like someone wanted to leave dents in there. 

Jimin’s gaze sticks to them. He can’t look away. 

The more he looks, the sharper they burn into his vision, until he can almost see it happening – Jungkook being pushed down, hands crushing his windpipe, his body straining for air. He imagines the sound, the choke of breath cut short, the helpless thrash of limbs. The image slams into him so vividly his stomach lurches, something ugly sparking in his chest, crawling through his ribcage, slithery and sour, filling his throat. 

“I’m glad you’re not so bad this time,” Jungkook says suddenly, pulling him out of it.

Jimin blinks, watching the other breaking a piece of bread off on his own tray, rolling it between his fingers before setting it down again.

“You are?”

That’s new.

Jungkook seems startled by the question. He freezes for a moment, something unguarded flickering across his face, before he presses his lips together and his expression hardens with indifference. He shrugs.

“It’s just not fun. Seeing you all battered and out of it and shit.”

Jimin snorts softly. “Maybe worry about yourself. You’re not doing so great either.”

Jungkook chuckles at that, though it ends in a wince, his hand pressing against his rib. 

“Still better than you, I’d argue.”

Jimin takes a sip of water. “Maybe.” He sets the cup back down on the tray, staring at the ripples that shiver across the surface.

“They—” He falters, then starts again. “They flood the room with something that looks like the sea—but isn’t.”

Across from him, Jungkook shifts, but doesn’t speak. 

Jimin’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t know why he’s telling Jungkook this. He’s never told him before what they did to him, and Jungkook never told Jimin what exactly they did to him either. 

Maybe now he’s saying it out loud to explain—to explain why he keeps wanting to be close to Jungkook, burying his face in Jungkook’s skin like a madman. Maybe he's justifying it in front of himself too.

“They flood it with waves that aren’t real waves. Salt that isn’t real salt. They make the walls shimmer like the ocean, make the room sound like the tide. But it’s all fake. Empty. And my body—” He shakes his head, staring down at his hands. “My body doesn’t understand. It aches to answer, makes me crave it, and it hurts. In here.” He presses a palm flat to his chest, not meeting Jungkook’s eyes. “Like I can’t breathe unless I give in. But there’s nothing real to answer to. It's so—” He swallows, throat tight. “It’s probably what drowning would feel like to you.”

He freezes the moment the words have left his mouth, his eyes snapping up to look at Jungkook. 

The silence that follows is heavy. 

Jungkook doesn’t move. His face is blank, empty, like a wall with no cracks, and he just—stares. Stares and stares and stares, until Jimin feels pinned beneath it, and then – finally – his gaze drops.

Jimin swallows, his mouth tasting like ash. He shoves the tray aside, something heavy pressing down on his shoulders. The feeling crawls under his skin, wrong. Foreign. Sirens aren’t supposed to feel this—this weight, this ache that clings like—like regret. 

Sirens don’t regret. Not their words. Not their actions.

“Did he suffer?”

He meets Jungkook’s eyes. They look just as blank as before—but there’s a weight behind them now. A tremor giving away that he’s been afraid to ask this question. 

For a moment Jimin doesn’t know what to say. Drowning is a terrible death, even under the influence of a siren’s song. And usually, he’d wield that truth like a knife, he’d relish the anger and hurt in Jungkook’s expression. 

But for some reason, right now, he doesn’t want to see Jungkook angry or sad. 

“No,” he lies. 

Jungkook averts his eyes, and Jimin knows he doesn’t believe him.

The air in Amara’s office is warm and heavy, kind of too thick to breathe, clinging to his skin. 

It’s like he’s been dropped into the belly of some beast, making him feel uncomfortable and on edge.

He shifts his weight, ignoring the rifle being dug into his shoulder blade by one of the two guards standing behind him. 

Amara paces behind her desk, heels clicking, her smile long gone.

“I’ve tried everything with you,” she hisses. “Charm. Hospitality. Pressure. And yet—” she spins, her blond bun gleaming under the lights, “—you still refuse to cooperate.”

Jimin stares at her, jaw tight.

She tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “You know, perhaps I’ve been going about this the wrong way.” Her voice softens into something sweet. “Perhaps the solution isn’t you at all.”

Jimin frowns. 

“I could hurt him instead.”

Something flares sharp and hot in his chest before he can stop it. His fingers twitch.

“Who?” He asks, although he already knows the answer. 

“Our good friend Jungkook of course.” 

“Why should I care?” He tries to keep his voice low and flat, but he can feel the slight tremor in his throat. 

“Oh, but you do.” Her lips curve, and she lifts a hand, flicks her fingers, and a holographic screen shimmers to life in the air between them. Footage crackles across it – grainy, apparently from a corner camera in their cell.

Jimin sees himself, half-collapsed, clinging to Jungkook. His face is buried in Jungkook’s throat, his body visibly trembling as his chest visibly rises and falls. Jungkook’s arms are wrapped around him, his lips close to Jimin’s ear, moving. Jimin wonders what he says in this clip. He never noticed Jungkook talking to him during those times, never heard a word.  

“Touching,” Amara purrs, her voice syrupy and cruel. “So sweet. Imagine if those arms were broken. If I had his hands shattered.”

Jimin’s stomach twists, heat surging in his chest.

“Imagine his screams when I cut the tendons in his legs and shatter his knees. When he tries to crawl away.”

His nails dig into his own palms, his teeth aching from grinding together. There is a pounding in his ears, his vision clouding with something red as he remembers the bruises around Jungkook’s throat, the way someone laid hands on him, trying to kill him.  

“Imagine me cutting out his tongue—” A jolt goes through his body at the words. “—making him choke on his own blood–”

He’s hauling himself over the desk before he realizes what’s happening, slamming into her.

“He’s mine,” he hisses, his voice raw in his throat.  

She shrieks as his nails claw across her face, leaving deep bloody lines. She stumbles back, hands flying up to shield herself.

“He’s mine to kill, you fucking bitch! You won’t fucking touch him!” His fist crashes into her nose with a wet crunch. Pain shoots through his knuckles from the impact, and a heartbeat later hands seize him from behind, trying to wrench him back. But he twists free, lurches forward again, grabs her by the face. His fingers dig into her cheeks as blood streams down her nose, over her lips, dripping from her chin. Her eyes are wide, panicked.

“Only I get to kill him,” he snarls. “No one else—” He draws his fist back and slams it into her face again. “No one—,” again, harder this time, his knuckles splitting, “—touches him!”

A familiar electric jolt tears through his back, white-hot. His body convulses, a strangled cry ripping from his throat. Strong hands finally drag him away, his feet scraping against the floor as he kicks and thrashes.

When the guard’s fist cracks against his jaw, copper floods his tongue. The next punch lands against his nose, his head snapping to the side. But the rage doesn’t falter—it burns through him, drowning out the pain, and he thrashes against their grip, blind with fury, spitting blood as they drag him out, Amara still sobbing and clutching her face when the door slams shut.

The corridor blurs. He doesn’t stop hissing, doesn’t stop fighting, until they hurl him into the cell where he stumbles and crashes into the ground, the door sealing behind him with a click. 

And then—silence.

His head jerks around.

Jungkook sits on the floor, slumped against the bedframe, head tipped forward, blood dripping from his face into his lap. He looks too still. Too pale.

Jimin scrambles across the floor on his hands and knees, yanks Jungkook’s head up by the hair.

“Wake up!”

At the sight that greets him he almost recoils.

Blood seeps from a fresh wound on Jungkook’s face. A wound that shouldn’t be fresh. A wound that should be old and silent. 

A wound that should be a scar. 

One that Jimin left there. 

His heart starts hammering in his throat, boiling heat flooding his veins until it feels like his whole body is vibrating with it. 

They touched the scar. 

They cut it open again. 

His vision blurs at the edges, and he feels like he can’t breathe. 

In front of him, Jungkook’s lips part, a groan rattling out between them before his eyelids flutter open. 

“What the—” Jungkook sounds hoarse and confused. His eyes wander over Jimin’s beat-up face, then they widen. He reaches up to touch Jimin’s cheek. “What the hell happened?”

Jimin shoves his hand away, grabs his throat instead, leaning in until their noses bump.

“You won’t let them kill you, do you hear me?” His voice cracks into a snarl. “I’ll be the one—” His breaths tear loud from his throat, his grip shaking with fury. “I’ll kill you, and no one else. Nobody gets to do it but me.”

Jungkook just stares at him for a moment, his face blank. But then something shifts, like a shadow dropping. His eyes turn darker, heavier, and suddenly, there’s a hand at the back of Jimin’s head, tangling in his hair, yanking him forward. 

Their split lips smash together, swollen and bloody. It hurts, the metallic taste filling Jimin’s mouth when their tongues slide against each other, clumsy and violent, their teeth clashing uncomfortably. But they don’t pull away. 

Jungkook tastes of salt and iron, bitter and raw, his pulse hammering under Jimin’s fingers. Jimin digs his nails harder into Jungkook’s neck, and Jungkook’s grip in his hair tightens until his scalp burns. 

The kiss is all pain, all fury, desperate and consuming. 

And neither of them stops. 

Jimin wakes with a start, breath catching in his throat. The ceiling swims above him, the strip of light buzzing faintly. He’s lying on the mattress, his face throbbing and pulsing. It stings when he licks his lips, his tongue brushing the cut there, and there is the faint taste of iron lingering on his tongue.

It takes a moment for it all to come back, but when it does, it comes all at once. The rage. The feeling of his nails splitting Amara’s skin. Jungkook’s scar torn open. The taste of copper flooding his mouth. 

The kiss.

He can still feel it if he lets himself: The drag of their lips, the heat of Jungkook’s tongue, the stinging pain. He doesn’t even remember what came after. The fury, the blur of it, and then that kiss that went on and on until this weak human body probably gave out. Somewhere in the mess, he must have fallen asleep.

He pushes himself up slowly, his muscles aching, and scans the cell with his eyes.

He frowns. 

Empty.

He looks around, the mattress beside him empty, too. 

Jungkook isn’t here.

Something twists low in his gut, his pulse hammering faster.

What if Amara meant it? What if she’s making good on her threat to kill him?

No—she wouldn’t. She thinks Jungkook is leverage to get what she wants from Jimin.

Jimin swallows around the tightness in his throat. 

But what if this is punishment? Punishment for what he did to her.

He shouldn’t have lost control. What if—

He scrambles off the bed, chest heaving, and then he just stands there in the middle of the cell, the cold of the floor creeping into his bare feet, his whole body buzzing with a restlessness he doesn’t know how to shake. 

What if Jungkook is already dead?

Jungkook doesn’t come back that night. Not the night after, either.

Jimin tells himself it doesn’t matter.

So what, if they took his kill. So what if they killed the human who was supposed to be his to end. It’s not the end of the world. There are bigger things to worry about.

It doesn’t matter.

Whenever they bring his meals, he doesn’t ask about Jungkook. He doesn’t want to seem like he cares. 

He doesn’t care.

And even if he did ask—what if he hated the answer?

So he eats what they give him, drinks the stale water, wipes himself down with the rough cloths, a routine, empty and dull, while he wrecks his brain trying to think of a way out of this. But his thoughts always end up circling back to the same thing. Jungkook.

Ever since he attacked Amara, they haven’t brought him to the studio anymore. He should be glad, but somehow, he almost wishes they did. At least he’d have a distraction from these endless questions hammering through his skull.

By the fourth night, the thought refuses to leave. It pounds in his head no matter how hard he tries to shove it aside.

Is Jungkook okay?

The words repeat, relentless, until they’re all he can hear. Cold creeps into his fingertips whenever he lets himself imagine what EchoBlack might have done. It’s nothing like the anger he’s used to, nothing like the sharp possessiveness a siren feels once they’ve claimed a human’s death for themselves.

Now, when he thinks about Jungkook being dead, there’s no possessive heat. No jealous rage.

Instead, there’s a cold lump in his stomach, heavy as stone, his thoughts circling over and over and over again.

Is Jungkook okay?

It’s seven days later – if he’s been counting right – that they come for him again. Two guards flank him, their grips iron-tight on his arms, dragging him down the sterile corridor toward the studio.

The chair is waiting for him, bolted to the floor now after he’s made it topple over more than once.

They force him into it, cold metal snapping tight around his wrists. The motions are kind of familiar now, and he still doesn’t understand why they bother, dragging him here again and again, expecting a different outcome. His lips will stay sealed. 

There is movement in the corner of his eye, and he expects the same routine – the buttons on the control panel clicking, followed by the air filling with the artificial sting of salt, the hollow roar of false waves until his chest aches with the memory of home.

But nothing the like happens. Instead, the movement comes closer. 

Jimin lifts his head. 

Amara’s face still carries the marks he has left. The scratches haven’t faded yet, still scabbed where his nails tore the deepest. Her nose, which he clearly remembers breaking, has been set back into place, but it’s still swollen and the skin around it purple, fading into yellowish green. She holds her head high as she walks up to him, her eyes twinkling with satisfaction. 

Jimin frowns, his gaze flicking to her hand, where something metallic catches the light.

He instantly freezes at the sight. 

Something ice-cold slithers down his spine, his stomach squeezing tight while his heartbeat kicks up.

How did they get that? 

“What—” His voice cracks, sounding thin and unsteady. “What is that?”

She lifts one of her thin eyebrows, holding the collar up. 

“You know what it is.”

Jimin’s breath gets stuck in his throat, and the collar buzzes faintly as she steps closer, just like the one ReZonyx used, the wires inside gleaming just as orange.  

“No—” Suddenly, he feels a helplessness he’s never felt before. “Get away from me—” He presses himself back into the chair, the cuffs digging into his wrists as he yanks at them, something tight clogging his chest. “Go away—”

She leans it, bringing the collar toward his throat.

“Get away from me!” 

He thrashes violently in the chair, kicks out his legs. 

There is a curse, footsteps, someone’s arm slamming against his chest, shoving him down. The moment he feels the warmth of the collar against his neck, something inside him caves inward, flooding him with cold, dragging him down. No! He jerks forward and drives his forehead square into Amara’s face.

There’s a sickening crunch, pain explodes behind his eyes while she stumbles back with a howl.

“Fucking shit!”

The collar clatters to the floor and she brings her hands up, clutching her nose, thick blood running through her fingers. 

There are voices, more hands holding him down, pressing him hard enough into the chair to make his ribs ache. He struggles anyway. 

“No—” The word comes out broken, his legs kicking when someone else snatches the collar from the floor.

And then the air shifts.

The sterile tang gives way to something wild, something alive. 

Salt. Wind. 

It fills his mouth and nose.

The sea. 

“Jungkook!” His scream cracks around the edges. Help me.

Something stills in the air, followed by a laugh coming from one of the guards behind him. 

“Hey, Jeon. The little mermaid’s calling for you.”

There are footsteps, echoing closer, and Jimin twists in his chair, eyes snapping toward the door. For a moment, the world seems to narrow, everything dropping away. 

Jungkook’s eyes are fixed on the ground as he walks in, flanked by two guards.

Pressure lifts from Jimin’s chest.

He’s alive. 

But only a second later, he notices that something’s off. 

Jungkook isn’t cuffed. The guards don’t hold him. Jimin searches his eyes, but he isn’t looking at him, not even a glance. Not when he walks straight toward them, not when he plucks the collar from someone’s outstretched hand.

It’s only when he turns toward him, that Jimin notices the bold red letters across his chest. 

EchoBlack.

There is a sick twist in his gut. The ground seems to shift under him, the world tilting. No. His wrists jerk violently against the cuffs, metal biting into already sore skin. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out, a thundering rush starting in his ears that makes him dizzy.

It can’t be. 

Jungkook steps into his space, smelling beautiful. Of the sea. Of home. This time when he feels the warmth of the collar around his neck, Jimin is too numb to move. There is the graze of Jungkook's fingertips on his skin, and for a split second, finally, their eyes meet. There is no hesitation in Jungkook's gaze. No guilt, no regret. Just something flat and cold. 

The click of the collar locking is louder than the roar in Jimin's ears.

His vision blurs only a second later when the first shockwave zaps into his throat.

He doesn’t even feel the pain at first, just the strange feeling of a violent seizure in his vocal cords. His mouth falls open, a strangled sound bursting out without his consent, his body forcing the beginning of a note he never meant to give. 

The second pulse follows immediately, sharper now, clawing up through his windpipe, and he falls back in the chair, metal cuffs tearing at his wrists as another sound scrapes free.  

His chest heaves, and through the blur he sees Jungkook stepping back, the warmth of his fingers leaving with him. 

There is another shock wave. This one burns. But the betrayal burns worse.

And then Jimin sings. 

The world is in shards of sound and light and pain that never stops.

He’s still in the chair, or again. He doesn’t know. He might've been back to his cell in between, but time has bled out of him, hours leaking into days, days into nothing. All he knows is the ache, the fire in his throat, and the endlessness of it all. 

They take from him. And take. And take. And Jimin thinks he has no more to give, and still they take. 

His voice isn’t his anymore. It’s just sound, dragged out of him in broken waves. 

Sweat clings to his back, his shirt plastered against his skin. His head throbs hollowly, the constant rushing in his ears making his stomach twist, bile rising in his throat. But all he can do – all they let him do – is sing. And sing. And sing.

He smells the stink of machinery in the room. Burnt wires, hot metal. And sometimes, he smells the sea. 

His chest clenches until it hurts. Rage wells up, sharp, splitting him open. He wants to kill them. Kill him. 

Kill him. Kill him.

He smells acid. 

He smells gunpowder. 

He smells blood. 

He only hears the footsteps thundering all around him when, suddenly, the pain in his throat stops. 

It cuts off so suddenly, that his body jerks, bracing for the next shock. But it never comes. 

There’s nothing.

And then weight loosens when the collar slips off. 

He hears it clatter, to the ground, and that’s when the shouting filters in. He blinks, his eyelids heavy, vision swimming in and out of focus. 

There’s someone crouched in front of him, the shackles around his wrists briefly tightening before they come undone. His arms slump uselessly to the side, his world tilting when hands hook beneath them, hauling him upright. 

His knees buckle, legs refusing to hold him, but he’s dragged out of the chair anyway, stumbling forward. 

“Come, quick,” Jungkook urges, draping Jimin’s arm over his shoulder.

Jimin just holds on. 

The hum of the engine thrums through his bones. Jimin sits slumped in the back seat of the car, temple against the cold glass of the window, his bound wrists resting in his lap. 

The driver smells of cigarettes and the holo-ink tattooed on his arm, and it mixes with the scent of the sea, coming from Jungkook in the back right next to him. He’s on the phone, reporting to his boss. 

Outside the window, the night streaks past in blurs of neon and shadows. In the faraway distance, the city’s glowing skyline twinkles small on the horizon, but here, in the outskirts, it’s darker. More like the skeleton of a city, half-collapsed warehouses, hollow billboards still flickering faintly with half-dead neon.

There are cars behind them, one in the front. 

They are all here to escort him back. 

Jimin’s breath fogs the glass, his throat still feeling a little raw. His eyes sting with tiredness, the blur outside making him dizzy, but he doesn’t let himself look away. He has to memorize the route. Every curve of the highway, every cluster of broken streetlamps, every shadow. He has to stay on top of where they are. They are too far out to make it back to ReZonyx in one trip. They will for sure have to take a break somewhere, sometime. 

And he’ll be ready. 

No matter how tired he is, no matter how much his body hurts. He has to run. 

He can’t go back there. Not in that tank, not into that life. 

So he traces the landmarks with his eyes, forcing them into memory even through the haze. Out here, there are fewer places to hide, but fewer eyes too. So if he times it right—

“Yes, Boss. It’s too far to make it tonight.” Jimin tunes into Jungkook’s conversation. “Six hours at least.” There is a pause, before the boss’ voice leaks faintly through the speaker, too low for Jimin to catch. “Understood,” Jungkook says. “We’ll hold out there until dawn. Yes, sir. I—I appreciate it.” He clears his throat. “Okay. Yes. Thank you, Boss.”

Jimin lets out a scoff, dragging his gaze away from the window and turning to look at Jungkook who’s pocketing his phone. 

“Back in his good graces, are you?”

It doesn’t come out nearly as venomous as he wanted, just hoarse and frayed, like everything else in him.

Jungkook shrugs without looking at him. 

He hasn’t done that at all. Looked at him. 

Not in the chaos of ReZonyx storming EchoBlack’s facility, not when he barked clipped orders to the others while ushering Jimin toward one of the black vehicles waiting somewhere outside the building from which they had emerged, not when he bound Jimin’s hands and slid into the backseat next to him, telling the guy in the driver’s seat to go. 

Now, his anti-siren earplugs gleam in the low light of the dashboard as he leans forward. 

“Safehouse Z. Tell the others.”

The driver nods, pressing a button on the dash. A faint burst of static fills the car before a filtered voice crackles back, acknowledging the order.

Jungkook settles back in his seat, and Jimin stares at his side profile.

Look at me, he thinks. You coward. 

But instead of looking at him, Jungkook turns the opposite direction toward the window. 

Heated anger floods Jimin’s chest, the muscles in his jaw twitching before he too turns to look outside the window again.

A safehouse, he thinks. Where they will stay the night. 

Maybe that’s his chance. 

The safehouse is a brothel. 

As they push him down the narrow hall on bare feet, wrists still bound in his front, the air is thick with synthetic perfume and the raw, unmistakable tang of sex. A sweeter, more chemical note rides beneath it, the stench of drugs that make bodies go longer and harder than nature ever intended.

The neon lights embedded in the walls shift colors in time with the bass that thrums from somewhere deeper inside the building. A laugh rings out from one of the rooms they pass, mechanical and airy, followed by a moan that doesn’t sound entirely human.

Jimin keeps his head down, jaw tight, every instinct screaming to get away.

Not because he’s embarrassed. Sirens don’t get shy over intimacy.

He’s had humans before.

Had lured them in with his touch rather than his song. And when they trembled against him, he took pleasure in it too. It was instinct honed into art – every moan, every shiver was part of the hunt, pleasure a weapon, another way to pull his prey under. 

But this—this is something else. 

Human need, loud and performative, twisted into a spectacle that’s cheap and hollow. That stinks of pretense. 

Jungkook’s grip is wrapped tightly around his upper arm as he steers him down the hallway, following a woman with hair the shade of blood. The rest of the men trail behind, weapons drawn. She hadn’t liked that, said the sight of guns unsettled both workers and clients. But Jungkook only told her this is how it’s going to be tonight.

Her gaze had lingered on Jimin, brows pulling tight, as if she was trying to piece together what could earn someone like him cuffs and an armed escort from ReZonyx. But then she shrugged, and turned around for them to follow. 

Jimin noticed she wasn’t wearing any protection in her ears at all. Probably expandable, not important enough to protect her from him. 

But he had no reason to kill her anyway. And maybe Jungkook knew that. 

When they reach the end of the neon-lit hall, the group halts in front of an elevator. The woman presses her palm to the glowing panel, and the door slides open with a low buzz. She steps aside, giving them room to enter, her expression carefully blank now. 

“Have a pleasant stay,” she simply says before turning on her heel and heading back down the hall – clearly eager to distance herself from whatever business they’ve brought into her establishment. 

Inside the elevator, the walls gleam with brushed chrome. Jungkook stands close behind Jimin, his presence a steady weight against his back, while the others crowd in around them. 

Jimin notices three of them staying back as the doors slide shut, and then the only sound is the low, mechanical hum of machinery as they climb up. 

It’s a short ride. The elevator stops on the next floor already, doors sliding open. One of the men steps out, and Jimin moves to follow, but Jungkook’s grip on his arm tightening holds him back. The doors shut, and they rise again.

On the next floor, another of the guys steps out. Then two more on the one after. 

Floor after floor, the elevator keeps emptying one or two people at a time, and only when the last man steps out, leaving only Jimin and Jungkook behind, Jimin understands. 

They are posting guards on every floor. Every exit.

To keep him from escaping. 

Shit.

He glances over his shoulder at Jungkook whose gaze is fixed straight ahead as the elevator closes and starts rising again. It grates on Jimin’s nerves. That he still won’t look at him. 

“So, are you getting a room or will you be guarding the floors too, like a dog?” 

“None of your business.” 

Something bitter fills the back of Jimin’s throat, the cold of the elevator floor seeping into his bare feet.  

“What’s the matter, Jeon?” He hisses. “Afraid I might bite if you look at me?”

At that, Jungkook’s eyes flick to his, and their gazes lock. For a moment, they hold eye contact. Jungkook’s gaze is hard and cold, and Jimin feels the urge to look away, because something about it is unbearable. But he refuses to. Instead, he forces himself to hold and hold, until, finally, it’s Jungkook averting his eyes, staring straight ahead again. 

Jimin scoffs and turns away too. 

“Coward,” he mutters. 

When the doors part again, the air feels different. 

The heady mix of perfume and sex and neon-haze is gone, and they are greeted with something quieter and cooler, a filtered cleanness that makes Jimin’s lungs drag in the air deeper. The lighting is a bit brighter here too, the walls simply white, the floor a clean beige carpet. 

Jungkook leads him down the corridor, past doors that look like ordinary hotel rooms, to the one at the very far end. There, he swipes a card through the lock, and it clicks open. 

The room behind it is clean, too. Minimal. A bed with crisp white sheets, two simple nightstands on either side with a lamp on top, a desk and chair pushed against the wall. Beige carpet, beige curtains, ordinary. On the far side, a door left slightly ajar reveals a small bathroom with white tile. 

When they step into the room, Jimin catches his reflection in the full-length mirror by the entryway. His wrists bound in front of him, face pale, eyes bloodshot, lips split and dry. Sweat has plastered his hair to his forehead, and his pink roots are bleeding through again. 

The door clicks shut behind them, metal sliding into place as Jungkook bolts it. Jimin watches, jaw tight.

“You can take a shower,” Jungkook says as he turns around to him, nodding toward the bathroom.

“Oh, can I? How gracious.”

Jungkook ignores the jab. 

“Don’t try anything funny,” he says instead as he steps closer, reaching for Jimin’s wrists. 

The cuffs bite into Jimin’s skin one last time before they are unlocked and pulled off. 

For a moment, Jimin stands there, rubbing at the sore red marks, and considers it—doing something ‘funny’. Not because he thinks it would get him far but because he feels the need to prove he’s not taking any orders here. 

But he’s sure there’s at least one gun on Jungkook, and he doesn’t know where.

Besides, he really does want that shower. He wants to scrub the stink of EchoBlack off, wants to wash the ache away, wants to feel water on his skin. 

He knows it won’t really fix anything, but maybe it’ll help him think a little clearer.

When he steps out of the shower, hair wet and skin still damp beneath the white hotel robe he found hanging on the bathroom door, Jimin halts.

The chair that had been tucked under the desk is gone – dragged across the room and planted squarely in front of the door. Jungkook sits in it, legs braced wide, inspecting a gun in his hand with practiced flicks. 

Jimin almost laughs. Guard dog indeed. 

Then his eyes flick to the windows on the opposite side of the room, now hidden behind curtains. 

“Don’t bother, I told them to seal them shut before we came here.” 

His gaze cuts back just in time to see Jungkook snap the chamber of his gun shut, the sound sharp in the room.

Jimin’s jaw tightens.

“So what now? You gonna sit there the whole night, watching me?”

“That’s the plan.”

Jimin hates the flat indifference in his tone, hates that Jungkook still won’t look him in the face, his eyes fixed on the gun instead.

The sting of betrayal twists deep in his gut, heated anger rising in his chest. 

“What do you want to eat?” Jungkook asks, nodding toward the open menu on the desk. “I’ll order us room service.”

“I’m not hungry,” Jimin hisses.

That, finally, earns him a glance.

“But you haven’t eaten in three days.”

The words land like a slap. Heat surges through Jimin so fast it roars in his ears, his skin prickling hot. The phantom weight of the collar tightens around his throat, sudden rage making something snap inside him.

“Oh, haven’t I?”

Before he even thinks, he’s moving. Crossing the room in a blur, faster than Jungkook can lift the gun. Jimin wrenches it from his grip and hurls it aside, metal clattering against the floor.

“And why is that, huh?!”

His hands clamp around Jungkook’s throat as he crashes into him, forcing him back. The chair shrieks across the floor and slams into the door, rattling it in its frame. Jungkook’s head snaps against the wood with a dull thud, his face twisting in pain.

“You—” Jimin snarls, baring his teeth, tightening his grip, digging his nails into Jungkook’s skin. “You’re the reason I didn’t eat. You’re the one who put that collar on me.”

He wants to claw his face off, to rip him open starting right from that gash on his cheek—but before he can move, Jungkook’s fingers snap around his already sore wrists, crushing them in a bruising grip. His jaw is clenched, a muscle ticking there.

“I needed them to trust me.” Jungkook’s brows are drawn together. “It was the only way to get access to a phone and reach ReZonyx.”

“That doesn’t change anything!”

“It got us out of there.” Blood wets the corner of his mouth. He must’ve bitten his tongue when his head slammed against the door. “How about some gratitude?”

Jimin’s vision burns red. His chest heaves, rage blistering hot through his veins.

“What the fuck!” He wrenches Jungkook forward by the throat only to slam his head back against the door with a sharp crack. Jungkook’s eyes squeeze shut with a strangled groan.

“It got you out of there!” Jimin yanks out of Jungkook’s grip and draws his hand back before driving his knuckles into Jungkook’s cheekbone, the jolt rattling up his arm while Jungkook’s head snaps to the side. “You got yourself out of there while I’m exactly where I was!” 

Another punch lands, splitting Jungkook’s lip. He glares at Jimin as he spits blood to the side.

“Different place, same fucking cage!” Jimin heaves, drawing back for another hit, but Jungkook is faster this time. He shoves him hard, sending him stumbling back, and before he can react, Jungkook is on his feet too.

“That’s enough.” His voice cracks. “You were slowly dying. I fucking saved your life!”

“I’d rather be dead,” Jimin hisses and takes great pleasure in the way Jungkook flinches, his expression faltering before slipping into something sour.

“What should I have done, huh?” He stands up taller. “My boss–”

“Yeah,” Jimin scoffs. “What else could a loyal ReZonyx dog like you have done?”

“They’re all I have left!” Blood trickles down Jungkook’s chin as he takes a step forward, his shoulders squared, his eyes furious. “They’re all I have left, because–”

He cuts himself short, muscles in his jaw clenching.

Jimin sneers. “Because I killed your brother.”

Something dangerous flashes through Jungkook’s eyes. Suddenly, he's right in front of Jimin, towering over him, his voice a low, venomous growl.

“Don’t fucking talk about him.” 

“I killed him!” Jimin spits, shoving against Jungkook's chest. “I killed him, I killed him, I killed–”

The rest is knocked out of his lungs when his back slams against the sideboard, the edge digging painfully into his spine, which is forced into an arch as hands close around his throat, pushing him back until his shoulders press into the wood. 

“Shut up—” Jungkook snarls, leaning in so close Jimin can feel the heat of his breath. His face is flushed, blotched with fury, his thumb digging into the side of Jimin’s neck. 

“I killed him!” Jimin leans forward into the chokehold, until their foreheads nearly touch. “And I’ll do the same to you,” he hisses. “One day, I’ll fucking finish what I started and kill you.”

A growl vibrates out of Jungkook’s chest, his hand tightening, pinning Jimin harder against the sideboard. The wood groans under the weight of their bodies, their thighs pressing together, Jimin is surrounded by the scent of sea, and something hot coils low in his gut. Fury blurs at the edges, bleeding into something else.

“Then do it,” Jungkook bites out, his eyes just as wild as Jimin feels, and Jimin can smell the blood on his breath. “Go on, starfish. You keep talking but you haven't even gotten close. Try it now. Show me how far you’ll actually get.”

Jimin should spit in his face. He should claw his eyes out, drive his knee up, bury his fist in his ribs. Instead, all he can think about is the blood on Jungkook’s lips, the heat of his breath, the press of his thighs, the fabric of his pants rough against Jimin’s bare skin where his bathrobe has ridden open. 

Jungkook is furious. And Jimin wants that fury, wants that rage, wants it to burn hotter. 

Before he realizes it, he reaches out, fingers tangling in Jungkook’s hair before he yanks hard, crashing their mouths together.

Teeth clash, lips splitting, copper flooding his tongue. Jungkook makes a low sound and Jimin’s grip tightens, dragging the other closer, chest to chest, their mouths grinding hard enough to hurt.  

It’s anger. It’s punishment. It’s hunger.

Jungkook’s hold on his throat shifts, thumb digging into the hollow beneath Jimin’s jaw to force his head back, deepening the kiss. Jimin hates the way it rips through him, hates that he wants more, hates that his fingers claw harder at Jungkook’s nape, desperate to hurt, desperate to hold, until he can’t tell which urge is stronger. He hates. He hates Jungkook. He hates him so fucking much.

“I hate you—” He hisses into the kiss, and the answer is a harsh bite to his lower lip that makes him wince. 

Likewise, it says.

Their hands clutch, shove, drag, breaths coming in harsh bursts against split lips.

This is no kiss. 

It’s a fight.

A fight they’re both losing.

Chapter Text

Their hands clutch, shove, drag, breaths coming in harsh bursts against split lips.

This is no kiss. 

It’s a fight.

A fight they’re both losing.

It hurts and it burns and Jimin wants it to hurt more. His hands shove under Jungkook’s shirt, nails digging in and dragging down skin. The hiss it rips from Jungkook only spurs him on, until a fist in his hair yanks his head back, teeth sinking into his jawline so hard that it’s surely going to bruise.  

Jimin can’t help the breathless sound escaping him, just before an arm wraps around his waist, pulling him up, dragging him closer and off balance.

They stumble through the room, colliding with walls and furniture, mouths still locked in something rough. Somewhere in the chaos, Jimin rips Jungkook’s shirt off, and Jungkook answers by yanking at the belt of Jimin’s robe, knuckles knocking into his waist as he tears it loose.

The robe slips off Jimin’s shoulders just as the back of his knees hit the mattress. He tumbles backward and pulls Jungkook down with him. The bedframe groans under the impact, springs protesting as they crash into the sheets in a tangle of limbs.

Immediately when Jungkook’s weight lands on top of him, Jimin is overly aware of their bare chests pressing together, of Jungkook’s warm skin, Jungkook’s heartbeat pounding just as hard as his own. He hooks a leg around Jungkook’s waist – fully aware of his robe sliding off completely in the process, his bare skin grinding against the rough fabric of Jungkook’s pants. It sends a wave of heat through him before he twists, using the momentum to roll them over.

Jungkook makes a sound – half protest, half surprise – as his back hits the mattress.

Jimin doesn’t waste any time, using the opportunity to straddle him, fumbling for his belt, yanking at the buckle. Jungkook surges up in answer, hand snapping around Jimin’s wrist, the other grabbing Jimin’s hip, as if to say not happening.

The belt comes only half-undone before Jungkook flips them over again, pinning Jimin into the sheets, breath hot, lips furious. And Jimin feels furious, too. Furious at Jungkook, furious at himself, furious that, right now, hate tastes so much like want. 

And it’s jarringly obvious that he wants. This stupid human body giving everything away. There’s nothing subtle about the way his skin flushes, about the way his hips twitch, about the way he’s already flooding with heat down there, growing heavier and harder. It’s so telling. So annoyingly human. 

And then there is the other thing—something that’s not human at all but gives him away nonetheless. 

It’s already starting. His middle pulsing and throbbing, as if his stomach floods and empties with heat over and over again in a steady rhythm. And he’s clenching down there in the same rhythm, unable to control it.  

It’s only dampness that he feels at first, which turns into a trickle when Jungkook grabs his ass, fingers digging into his cheeks, yanking him close while grinding down. It makes his toes curl, makes him clench harder and pulse, each spasm releasing more wetness. 

The sweetness of it already fills Jimin’s nose, sugary and humiliating. He knows Jungkook can’t smell it, but sooner or later, he’s going to notice. And Jimin hates it. Hates that his body is giving this away, that he wants Jungkook even though he hates him so much. 

He hates that Jungkook of all people is the one to see him like this. Yet beneath the anger, he can’t deny the pull, the thrill of knowing that he’s about to see Jungkook come undone, too. To see him vulnerable. To strip that armor off. He wants to see it come undone completely, wants to see Jungkook exposed. He wants to see his breath hitch, his eyes squeezed shut, his mouth open. He wants Jungkook to lose control. 

Jungkook’s tongue is still in his mouth, kissing him deeply, his muscles flexing against Jimin as he grinds down over and over again. His half-opened belt digs into Jimin’s lower stomach, and he smells of leather, of salt and wind, of gun-powder, and of the faintest trace of blood from his split lip that Jimin bit open earlier. 

It’s overwhelming, dizzying—and Jimin wants more. 

He shoves his hands between them, yanking Jungkook’s belt all the way open, jerking the zipper down and shoving his hand inside. Jungkook groans into his mouth, his cock warm and heavy in Jimin’s hold, skin smooth. 

The angle is awkward, Jimin’s wrist pinned between their bodies, so his strokes are short and rough and Jungkook’s hips jerk forward, again and again, forcing more of himself into Jimin’s palm.

When Jimin squeezes, a sound drags from Jungkook that makes his own hips buck helplessly, the wet feeling between his cheeks turning wetter and slicker. There is a rush in his ears and his face burns. Everything feels too tight, too cramped like this.

He yanks his hand free and shoves at Jungkook’s pants instead, forcing them down over his thighs. Their mouths break with a wet smack as Jungkook pulls back, shifting just enough to strip the fabric off, kicking it away before pressing down again—bare skin colliding with bare skin.

The difference is electric. Their cocks slide together hot and slick, wetness smearing between them—Jimin doesn’t know if it’s his or Jungkook’s, only that his vision blurs and his toes curl uselessly in the air with each desperate drag of hips as they grind rough and fast.

Jungkook braces himself on his forearms on either side of Jimin’s head, and their eyes lock.

Jimin wishes they hadn’t.

Up close like this, he can see the fine silvery texture of Jungkook’s scar that’s been torn back open, still angry in places. He can clearly see how blown wide his pupils are as well as the slight sheen of sweat on his brow. His lips are kiss-swollen, split, a smudge of blood at the corner of his mouth and Jimin wonders whose it is. There is something in his gaze that terrifies Jimin as much as it pulls him in. Hunger. And underneath that hunger is something else, just as sharp: Hatred. Anger. The same fury that Jimin knows is mirrored in his own expression.

It’s unbearable to look at—because he doesn’t know which part makes his stomach clench harder, the want or the loathing. His gaze lingers on Jungkook’s mouth, shiny and ruined, before Jungkook ducks down, burying his face into the curve of Jimin’s neck. His breath is hot, harsh and shuddering, every inhale dragging goosebumps over Jimin’s damp skin. 

Their hips don’t stop. They keep moving, grinding, harder and rougher, every drag of their cocks sending sparks up Jimin’s spine. Each thrust makes the wet heat between his cheeks spread, makes his body ache with need. His nails dig into Jungkook’s shoulders, and it’s not enough. Nothing feels like enough.

Without thinking he hooks his legs around Jungkook’s waist, dragging him closer even though there’s no space left between them. The desperate movement earns him a sound, low and rough, vibrating out of Jungkook’s chest and straight into his neck, followed by the scrape of teeth. His gasps are loud in the room, his hips rutting helplessly to meet every press of Jungkook’s.

“Fuck,” Jungkook growls before he shifts. One arm slips lower, hand sliding over Jimin’s hip before gripping the swell of his ass again, pulling him flcloser. Fingers dig in hard, kneading, bruising, sliding closer and closer—and then Jungkook freezes.

And Jimin knows why. 

He knows what Jungkook feels. 

The slick dripping out of him and coating his backside, undeniable and impossible to miss. 

Jungkook pulls away from him and scoots back just enough to look down between them. His hands shove at Jimin’s thighs, forcing them open, spreading him wide so everything is on display. The air on his wet skin makes Jimin shiver, and when Jungkook’s gaze lingers shamelessly, he wants to snarl at him—but all he does is choke on a helpless sound when a thumb pulls his cheek apart. 

There is a breathless laugh. Jungkook looks at him.

“You say you hate me. What’s this then?”

His thumb slides closer, rubbing through the slick, and Jimin’s cock twitches treacherously. Jungkook catches the movement, a grin pulling at his lips. It grates on Jimin’s nerves, makes him bare his teeth.

“You’re one to talk.”

Before Jungkook can reply, Jimin angles his leg and pushes his foot against the underside of Jungkook’s cock, his toes curling over the wet tip. Jungkook’s grin slips off his face with a startled hiss, his hips jerking forward twice before he shoves Jimin’s leg away, catching his calf in a firm grip. His jaw flexes.

“So this is your way of killing me, huh?” His voice is low and mocking. “Your way of ‘finishing the what you’ve started’?” He repeats Jimin’s words from earlier, then he leans in until their foreheads touch. 

For a long moment, they just stare at each other, eyes locked, breaths mingling, and Jimin refuses to blink, refuses to look away, refuses to give Jungkook the satisfaction of seeing anything crack, refuses to—

His body jerks, going rigid when he feels a fingertip right there. 

Jimin feels himself clench rather embarrassingly. There is a rush in his chest and heat in his belly, and he’s only able to hold Jungkook’s dark gaze for another heartbeat before he licks his lips and turns his head, breaking eye contact, refusing to give anymore but silence. 

Nobody will ever catch him begging for something like this. 

He’s a siren. He’s the one who is begged for, the one humans drown themselves to touch. Sirens don’t plead. They take.

And yet here he is—pinned beneath Jungkook, heat curling low in his gut as the finger presses a little harder.

His toes curl when Jungkook starts circling, pushing, testing—it makes his stomach knot tight, his throat working on a swallow he can’t quite force down. Obscene slick sounds fill the room as Jungkook spreads the wetness around, teasing him, and Jimin’s face burns hotter and hotter, an unfamiliar feeling making his eyes squeeze shut. Only a second later, a strong grip takes hold of his face, Jungkook’s fingers digging into his cheeks, forcing his head around to look at him.

“Got something to say, starfish?” 

Jimin narrows his eyes, reaching up to curl his fingers around Jungkook’s wrist. 

“What do you want me to say?”

Somehow Jungkook’s expression pins him harder than the hand on his face, dark and steady, except for the slow lift of his brow. 

“I don’t know—” Jungkook says, and Jimin’s eyelids flutter when the pressure of the finger increases. “Maybe tell me how much you want this.” 

Jimin scoffs, but it comes out breathless.

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” 

“As a matter of fact, I would.” 

Jimin’s sight blurs when he feels his body swallowing around the fingertip, and he hates the shaky exhale that leaves his throat as Jungkook pushes in deeper. He keeps his eyes fixed on Jimin’s face the entire time, and it makes Jimin feel vulnerable, makes this moment way more intimate than he would like. 

When Jungkook’s knuckles meet his ass, a heated shudder runs through him. 

The grip on Jimin’s face loosens, and Jungkook braces his hand against the instead. His gaze, however, never wavers, staying locked on Jimin as he slowly draws back—only to press in again.

The movements repeat, slow and steady, Jungkook’s finger gliding in and out without any hurry, a slow rhythm that leaves Jimin’s body twitching. Each time Jungkook pulls out, Jimin feels the betraying squeeze of his own muscles trying to hold him in.

He bites down on the inside of his cheek, annoyed by how obvious it must feel. But Jungkook doesn’t mock him for it, he just stares at him, his touch nothing at all like what Jimin braced himself for. It’s way more careful than expected, weirdly gentle, making his chest fill with something he doesn’t like. 

So he scoffs breathlessly. 

“You’re not going to break me, you know.” 

Jungkook’s finger goes still, his eyes narrowing above Jimin—and then he shifts. His finger slips from Jimin so suddenly, that Jimin can’t help but gasp, followed by a startled sound when an arm slides under his back and the world suddenly tilts. 

He’s pulled upright, manhandled around, until he finds himself right in Jungkook’s lap, his back colliding with Jungkook’s chest. 

Before he can even catch his breath, Jungkook’s knees slot between his own from below, pushing them apart so his legs are draped over Jungkook’s on either side. His thighs are spread so wide he can feel the cold air against the wet heat between them, can feel the slick pooling, sliding down the inside of his cheek and dripping into the mattress below. 

Jungkook’s muscles shift against his back when he reaches around him, and the sensation of two fingers pressing against his slick rim is all the warning Jimin gets before they drive inside with one hard thrust. 

His mouth falls open, his head snapping back against Jungkook’s shoulder as his spine arches, heat ripping through him. His body clamps down around Jungkook’s knuckles, sucking him in, a burning weight curling low in his stomach. More slick spills out, running over Jungkook’s fingers as Jungkook pulls out only to slam back in, again and again, the quick, unrelenting rhythm sending his hand smacking wetly against Jimin’s ass. The sound cracks through the room, obscene and loud, mixing with Jimin’s broken cries that he wishes he could swallow but isn’t able to. 

As if to help him out, a hand clamps over his mouth, cutting him off, Jungkook’s lips brushing hot against his ear.

“This better?”

Jungkook pulls his knees in, dragging Jimin’s legs higher with them before forcing them even further apart until the stretch burns in the inside of Jimin’s thighs. 

He wants to snap back, wants to tell Jungkook to shut the fuck up, when a third finger slams into him without any warning, ramming right into that spot. 

Jimin’s legs jolt in the air, muscles straining, the ceiling blurring above him—and thank fuck Jungkook’s palm is still clamped over his mouth, because the moan that tears out of him is nothing he ever wanted heard.

Jungkook doesn’t let up. His fingers are fast and relentless, every thrust making Jimin’s stomach twist and burn. He grips at Jungkook’s forearms, digging his useless human nails into his skin. 

“You never answered my question,” Jungkook murmurs, his breath hot against Jimin’s cheekbone. “If you hate me so much, why are you dripping like this, starfish?”

The words hit harder than the thrust of his fingers, sliding straight under Jimin’s skin. They remind him he isn’t supposed to want Jungkook like this, that he isn’t supposed to let Jungkook see him like this, raw and open, coming apart in his arms.

That’s when he becomes overly aware of the heat of Jungkook’s hard cock pressing against the small of his back, the wetness against his spine. Who the fuck is Jungkook to talk?! He’s aroused too. By Jimin, even though he hates him just as much.

The thought burns through Jimin’s chest, twisting into something desperate, feeding the familiar feeling of wanting Jungkook to fall apart just like he does right now. He wants to strip control from him, wants to see him exposed and undone. 

The need lashes through him so strong his fingers move before his mind can catch up. With a frustrated sound, he tears Jungkook’s hand from his mouth and reaches back blindly, fingers tangling in his hair. He yanks him in, crashing their mouths together. Their teeth knock, their tongues meet, the kiss a mess of anger.

Jimin ruts his ass back, grinding up and down in time with the thrust of Jungkook’s fingers, pressing harder into the thick cock straining against his back. Each push drags a low sound from Jungkook, his breath stuttering hot into Jimin’s mouth, and the rush of it makes Jimin’s chest burn.

He tears his mouth from Jungkook’s with a growl, shoving at his shoulders as he tries to twist in his lap. Jungkook doesn’t let him at first, his arm locking tight around Jimin’s middle, fingers still driving into him. They grapple, hands yanking and pushing, bodies straining against each other, until Jimin finally wrenches himself free.

The movement drags Jungkook’s fingers out of him, leaving him wet and empty as he somehow manages to untangle their legs before turning around to face Jungkook, his knees digging into the mattress between Jungkook’s spread legs. 

Jungkook looks like he’s about to protest, but his mouth snaps shut when Jimin slides down his body, scooting further back and lowering himself down on his elbows, coming face to face with Jungkook’s cock—thick and flushed.

He inhales the scent deeply, his stomach throbbing with heat, the puff of his exhale making Jungkook’s cock twitch where it’s resting heavy against his stomach. Jimin feels himself clench at the sight, and he leans closer, tongue flicking out to taste the wetness gathered at the tip before sliding down the length. A groan rumbles out of Jungkook, and when Jimin looks up he sees him braced back on his hands, chest heaving, eyes locked on him with something dark and burning.

Then he shifts, one hand leaving the mattress to reach down and curl around his cock, guiding the tip against Jimin’s lips. The gesture makes Jimin’s jaw clench – this isn’t supposed to be a game of dominance. So e slaps Jungkook’s hand away, wraps his own around the thick base instead, and shoves him into his mouth in one determined motion, sinking down until he takes him whole, all the way into his throat.

“Shit—” Jungkook swears, his fingers tangling hard in Jimin’s hair. “Oh—fuck—” 

Jimin pulls back with a wet drag, lips stretched wide, before sinking down again, throat working around the girth. He hollows his cheeks, tongue pressed along the underside, and every groan that tears out of Jungkook vibrates through him like a reward. He loves it—loves how quickly the composure slips from Jungkook, how the low curses break into rougher sounds the longer he goes. The burn in his throat, the strain in his jaw, and the drool sliding down his chin barely registers, completely overshadowed by the heat curling in his belly at hearing Jungkook lose it. 

When he looks up under his lashes, he finds Jungkook’s head tipped back, lips parted, the column of his throat exposed, the muscles in his stomach contracting in the rhythm of Jimin’s movements. The sight makes Jimin groan around Jungkook’s length, and Jungkook’s mouth snaps shut, jaw clenching around a choked sound as his hips twitch up helplessly into Jimin’s mouth. Jimin tightens his grip around the base of his cock to keep the pace his own, the desperate tug of Jungkook’s fingers in his hair making his own cock throb between his legs. 

He knows he’s been leaking all over the place. Slick slides out of him, running down his thigh, his cock dripping with precum, the sheets underneath most likely a soaked mess. But he can’t bring himself to care when Jungkook’s groans turn more and more breathless, helpless. 

He drags back far enough for his tongue to flick over Jungkook’s slit, tasting the bitter-salt of precum, before driving down again, hollowing his cheeks. Jungkook’s breath shatters into a loud moan, followed by a broken curse. His hips twitch again and again, chasing more, and Jimin gives it to him. He quickens his pace, sliding his tongue along a vein, feeling Jungkook shudder. 

Jimin knows Jungkook is close. He can feel it in the way the muscles in his thighs tighten, can hear it in the way his voice breaks, every sound more ragged and desperate than the last. Jimin’s entire body floods with heat at the thought of pushing Jungkook over the edge. 

But suddenly Jungkook’s hand fists so hard in his hair that it pulls a strangled gasp from him, yanking him off with a wet pop. The force sends him tumbling to the side, shoulder crashing into Jungkook’s bent leg, and then the tight grip in his hair hauls him upwards, dragging him into Jungkook’s lap. 

Before he can even catch his breath, Jungkook’s mouth crashes against his, tongue pushing deep. Jimin gasps into the messy kiss, half from the sting of being wrenched around and half from the sheer heat of it all. He rocks his hips helplessly, dragging his cock against the hard ridges of Jungkook’s abs, covering them in precum. Jungkook swallows the sounds he makes, deepening the kiss. Then his arm snakes around Jimin’s back, hand sliding down, reaching for his cock. 

Only a heartbeat later, Jimin feels the hot nudge of the tip against his slick rim. 

A choked gasp tears out of him, his hands flying to Jungkook’s shoulders for balance as the pressure builds and builds—then finally gives.

They both moan into the kiss as Jungkook slides deeper, inch by inch, holding Jimin’s hips to guide him, filling him up, until he’s finally fully inside. 

For a moment neither of them moves, their mouths brushing but not quite kissing, breaths ragged and for a moment it’s nearly impossible to get enough air. Jimin can feel Jungkook deep inside him, can feel the stretch, the heavy throb of Jungkook’s cock, pressing right against that spot that makes his toes curl. 

“Oh–”

He feels himself flood with heat, his vision turning white around the edges. 

It shouldn’t be like this. 

Sitting on Jeon Jungkook’s cock shouldn’t feel this good, shouldn’t be so—addicting. 

His hunter, his enemy. The one whose brother he killed, the one who wants to drag him back to imprisonment and torture. 

They hate each other more than anything in this world, and yet, they cling to each other in a way that’s so greedy, their muscles twitching, their fingers trembling where they dig into each other’s skin.  

He hasn’t even realized he had his eyes closed until they flutter open and he’s met with the sight of Jungkook’s furrowed brows, his eyes squeezed shut, and a tight focus in his expression, like holding back takes everything out of him. The sight makes Jimin’s thighs quiver, his muscles clenching down hard around Jungkook before he can stop himself. Jungkook groans against his mouth, the sound rough and unguarded, punching heat straight into Jimin’s stomach. He likes the way Jungkook sounds with his cock buried inside him. He likes that Jungkook sounds that way because of him. 

So he does it again. He clenches around him, grinding his hips down, and this time Jungkook’s eyes snap open, glaring at him as his fingers dig harder into Jimin’s hips, as if to pin him still. But Jimin doesn’t stop. He watches with a thrill as Jungkook’s focus slips for a heartbeat, his jaw tightening when Jimin ruts down again. And again. Until, with a breathless curse, Jungkook gives in, rolling his hips up in slow matching grinds.

Their lips meet again in another messy kiss, which turns messier and messier by the second, their breathing getting harsher, until Jungkook tears his mouth away. 

Jimin’s lips are still tingling when Jungkook leans back on one hand, the other grabbing Jimin’s ass while he plants his feet into the mattress for leverage. 

And then he slams into him. Relentless thrusts that drive deep, each snap of his hips jolting Jimin up and down in his lap. 

The sudden pace rips a moan from both of them, and Jimin leans back, bracing his hands on Jungkook’s thighs for support, bursts of heat sparking through his stomach each time Jungkook’s cock drags hard over that tender spot inside him. Helpless sounds tear out of him no matter how hard he tries to hold them in. His cock bounces with each thrust, dripping precum all over Jungkook’s stomach, his thighs straining to try and keep himself steady. 

His skin burns everywhere they touch, and he can’t look away—can’t stop looking when Jungkook’s head tips back, his throat working as he groans, can’t look away from the scar on his flushed cheek, and the faint shimmer of the anti-siren tech lodged in his ear.

Jimin’s eyes get stuck on it. 

It would be so easy. 

With Jungkook distracted like this, Jimin could easily yank the device free, and make good on his promise. He could end it right here, right now. End him.

Maybe he should try it. 

Just to see how easy it would be. 

Not because he would actually do it.

Well—Maybe he would. 

Maybe he wouldn’t.

His hand lifts before he even thinks about it, fingertips grazing the curve of Jungkook’s ear, hooking under the small device—

—and tugging it free.

The earplug tumbles to the sheets, and Jungkook’s eyes snap open wide. 

Before Jimin can even part his lips, Jungkook’s hand shoots out and clamps down over his mouth, bruising fingers digging into his cheeks. 

He’s shoved back hard, the world tilting until his spine hits the mattress.

Jungkook’s cock stays buried inside him the whole time, the stretch making his eyes roll back.

The grip on his face tightens when Jungkook reaches for the earplug with his free hand, quickly jamming it back into place. Then he releases Jimin’s face and slides his hand down to take hold of his throat, wrapping around it and squeezing. 

“Really?” He huffs, sounding out of breath, his eyes burning into Jimin in a mix of amusement, utter disbelief and fury. 

Jimin licks his lips. 

I wasn’t going to do anything, he thinks, almost surprising himself with the truth. 

“Thought I’d try my luck,” he says instead. 

The sound Jungkook makes is closer to a growl than anything human. He catches Jimin’s wrists and slams them into the mattress, pinning them down on either side of Jimin’s head. Then he leans close. 

“Gotta give it to you,” he says, the words hot against Jimin’s lips. “Took me by surprise. But–” His hips slam forward again, hard and deep, punching the air straight from Jimin’s lungs. “–you gotta be quicker than that.”

Jimin’s back arches with each thrust, wrists straining against the grip pinning them to the mattress, his muscles clenching tight around the thick weight inside him. Each drag sends fire through his gut until his vision blurs.

Why the fuck does Jungkook feel so good?

The sound of their bodies meeting is filthy, Jimin’s cock throbbing and leaking onto his stomach. The heat inside him burns so hot, it’s almost unbearable, an ache in his chest that has nothing to do with the cock inside him and everything to do with needing Jungkook closer. He twists against the grip on his wrists, desperate to touch.

Jungkook only pins him down harder with a growl, crushing his wrists so hard that it sends a dull throb through Jimin’s lower arm. Still, Jimin fights, jerking and straining until one wrist slips free, and in Jungkook’s attempt to snatch it back, his hold on the other loosens—just enough for Jimin to tear himself free completely.

In an instant he wraps his arms tight around Jungkook’s neck, hauling him down until their chests crash together.

Jungkook goes rigid in his hold, his breath stuttering against Jimin’s neck as he tries to push himself off Jimin. But Jimin only hugs him tighter, his lips brushing Jungkook’s ear, pressing against the smooth, hard surface of the earplug.

“Jungkook,” he breathes, and Jungkook's cock throbs inside him. 

Jungkook shudders, a rough, broken sound puffing against Jimin’s throat, before his muscles finally loosen, his weight sinking into Jimin’s hold. For a moment Jimin can feel the tremor still running through him, hot breath dragging over his skin—then Jungkook’s hips start moving again.

The first thrust punches deep, dragging a gasp from Jimin’s mouth. Another follows, and another, faster now, the rhythm building. Jungkook shifts, sliding his arm beneath Jimin’s back, pulling him up, holding him close, and Jimin’s legs wrap around Jungkook’s waist in return, until they are so entangled that he can’t tell if he’s the one holding onto Jungkook or Jungkook is holding onto him. 

His toes curl, his entire body clenching tight, and Jungkook’s moan sounds so vulnerable and unguarded that it almost drives Jimin mad with heat, with want, with the dizzying knowledge that he’s the one pulling it out of him. 

He answers with a moan of his own, overly aware of the sweat on his skin, the scent of the sea surrounding him, and the dripping wetness between his legs.

Jungkook buries himself to the hilt with every snap of his hips, the relentless pace making Jimin’s cock throb where it’s crushed between their stomachs. Their bodies move against each other in a frantic grind, rutting hard and messy, every drag feeding the fire until nothing exists but heat and friction, the dizzying press of skin against skin.

All that hate, all that danger, is swallowed by something reckless, by the intensity of wanting.

Jimin feels it build sharp and fast, the pressure winding tighter. His stomach knots, his thighs tremble, every thrust only piling on more heat until he can feel his cock straining. 

“I-I’m—”

Jungkook pulls back just enough to look at him, their noses brushing, their breaths harsh on each other’s lips. 

“Go on.” 

A broken sound catches in Jimin’s throat. He throws his head back, digging his teeth into his lower lip, trying to hold the next sound back, but he can’t contain the rush and loses all control over himself. 

The release rips through him sudden and brutal, blinding in its intensity. His spine arches in Jungkook’s hold, a raw cry breaking from his throat as his cock jerks between them, spilling hot, each spurt sending another shudder through him. 

It keeps coming in waves that roll over him one after another, his lungs desperately dragging in air as his vision keeps blurring white, his muscles twitching, his body nothing but wet heat and shaking limbs, and the force is so overwhelming that he doesn’t even realize how loud he’s moaning until it reaches his own ears, broken and unrestrained. 

His hole clamps down tight with every wave of pleasure, dragging groans from Jungkook’s throat whose rhythm falters, getting sloppier, more desperate, before he slams in deep, holding there as he shudders against Jimin, coming inside him in thick pulses. 

Jimin gasps, every twitch of Jungkook’s cock making him clench even tighter, drawing more rough sounds from Jungkook in turn, both of them caught in a spiral of each other’s orgasms, shaking through it until they’re left gasping and spent, bodies locked together.

Aftershocks roll through him in smaller waves, his chest heaving, lungs dragging in air, and he can feel Jungkook’s heartbeat pounding against his ribs almost as if it’s his own. 

Eventually, Jungkook shifts, pushing himself up and slowly pulling out. The stretch makes place for a messy slide, hot wetness spilling out of Jimin and he grimaces weakly at the feeling.

The mattress bounces when Jungkook rolls off and drops into the sheets beside him. Jimin stares up at the ceiling, chest still rising and falling heavily, every nerve buzzing with the echo of what just happened. 

But slowly, the loss of Jungkook’s warmth turns into something colder, something heavy in the pit of his stomach. 

Sirens don’t feel shame. Not over something like sex. 

But the feeling in his chest right now is unmistakable.

He’s ashamed. 

Because this wasn’t just sex. This wasn’t just fucking. It was wanting. Wanting Jungkook. And not in the way he’s used to, not the kind of want that ends in blood. Somewhere along the line, the urge to hurt Jungkook twisted into something else.

Jimin isn’t sure what to make of it, his thoughts still tangled too much. But his instincts tell him he betrayed himself, and there’s no excuse for that.

He pushes himself upright, every muscle jittery as he slides off the bed. Slick and cum slides down the inside of his thighs when he stands, and the bathroom feels impossibly far, but he stumbles toward it anyway, needing space, needing water, needing to ground himself.

Before he can make it to the door, a hand clamps around his upper arm. He jerks away, but Jungkook is suddenly at his side, steadying him when his knees nearly buckle. Stupid, weak, human legs.

“Go away,” he snaps.

“Just let me help you, it’s not that deep.”

Jungkook is a mess too. Skin still flushed, hair plastered to his forehead, chest and stomach wet with sweat and some of Jimin’s cum. Jimin looks away, but still spots the bite marks along his jaw.  He wants to shove Jungkook off, spit in his face, but his body feels too jittery to follow through when Jungkook maneuvers him into the bathroom.

When the light flicks on, it blinds him at first, but as his eyes adjust, his gaze catches on the mirror above the vanity—and he scowls at his own reflection. His cheeks are flushed, his lips swollen and split from biting and kissing, dark bruises already forming on his collarbone and throat. 

He looks so—marked.

Every inch of him is stamped with Jungkook. A human. A human who isn’t just part of the reason he’s been locked in a tank for nearly a decade but intends to drag him back there again.

Frustration spikes through his chest—anger at Jungkook, but worse, at himself. He tears his gaze away from the mirror, shoving Jungkook off this time, and steps into the shower. 

It hisses to life when he turns the knob, the cold water shocking against his overheated skin. He stands there with his head bowed, staring at his feet as the spray beats down on him. It runs over his shoulders and drips from his hair while he forces himself to breathe. To think. 

He needs to get out. Now. He’s lost track of time through this mess, this—madness with Jungkook, but it has to be close to morning. They’ll be leaving soon, and if he doesn’t move, he’ll miss his chance. 

He has to find a way out.

He startles a little when the icy spray of water suddenly warms. There’s a noise behind him, followed by the heat of Jungkook’s body against his back. 

Arms come around him, reaching for the dispenser attached to the wall, and the air fills with the soft smell of peaches when Jungkook lathers his hands with it, rubbing them together to build foam before the brings his hands to Jimin’s chest, smoothing over his skin there, then lower to his stomach, washing away the sticky mess. 

Jimin’s throat tightens. He knows he should recoil. Should snarl, should shove Jungkook off. But somehow, all that leaves him is a muttered “I can do that myself”. 

Jungkook pauses, then makes a low humming sound before he pulls away, stepping back, his warmth leaving Jimin.

And Jimin just stands there. Stupidly. Staring at the soap dispenser, still feeling the phantom sensation of Jungkook’s hand moving so gently on his skin. He swallows, somehow unable to reach for it.

The seconds drag, water hissing steady against tile, until Jungkook’s warmth presses against his back again. Jimin’s eyelids flutter, his vision swimming slightly, and all he hears is the soft click of the dispenser before Jungkook’s hands slide over his skin again. 

This time, Jimin doesn’t complain. He lets him wash his chest, his stomach, water mixing with soap and streaming the mess away. He doesn’t move when palms glide down the front of his thighs, thumbs grazing dangerously close to his cock, but his heartbeat stutters. And when Jungkook’s hands slip between his thighs, soaping the sensitive skin there, Jimin swears he can feel the pounding of Jungkook’s own heart picking up against his back.

Heat fills his belly, insistently coiling between his legs, and a shaky exhale escapes him when Jungkook’s hands ghost upward again, almost cautious. Jimin’s toes curl as fingertips glide over his hardening length, and a strangled sound tears from his throat when Jungkook’s hand finally curls around it. 

His knees buckle and he would’ve gone down if it wasn’t for Jungkook’s arm wrapping around his middle, hauling him against his chest. The other hand works steadily over his cock, slick from water and soap, each stroke making his thighs tremble harder. Jimin gasps, the sound catching high in his throat, and when Jungkook runs his thumb over the tip, his head falls back against Jungkook’s shoulder. 

The water rains down on his front, on his chest, on where Jungkook is stroking him, and he squirms, feeling breathless, tries to bite back the sounds. But it’s no use. His mouth finds Jungkook’s neck and he buries it there as Jungkook’s other hand wanders upward, fingers finding a nipple, squeezing.

He shouldn’t be letting this happen again. 

The thought sparks and immediately drowns in the flood of sensation. Somehow, it feels different this time. Softer. Less like fighting and marking, more like being tended to, like being made to feel good. 

Just once more, a voice in his head tells him. One more time. 

The hand leaves his chest, and Jimin feels Jungkook shift a little behind him, sliding it between their bodies to grab his own cock, guiding the tip between Jimin’s cheeks until it nudges his rim. He gasps into Jungkook’s neck when he feels the pressure increase. He’s already wet again, slick gathering there, sliding down his thigh, only to be thinned and washed away by the shower.

Jungkook pushes in slowly, stretching him, and once he’s halfway inside, he leans forward, his chest pressing into Jimin’s back, forcing him to bend with the movement. Fingers close around his wrists, dragging his arms up and guiding his hands forward, until his palms slap fatly against the wet tile. 

Jimin braces himself against it while Jungkook sinks in the rest of the way, filling him inch by inch until he’s fully inside. 

They don’t last long this time. 

The first thrusts are slow, then turning faster, hips rolling as Jungkook’s hands roam Jimin’s front, teasing his nipples, tracing down to his cock, touching everywhere but never staying long enough. The gentleness makes Jimin’s head spin, makes his belly pull tighter, his cries slipping free no matter how hard he tries to bite them back, echoing against tile, mixing with the slap of water and Jungkook’s breathless groans.

This is so addicting, Jimin thinks, just as the knot of tension inside him bursts. 

His orgasm tears through him hard enough to make his vision blank out, cock jerking in Jungkook’s hand as he spills against the tile. His whole body convulses, muscles clamping down around the length inside him with every pulse, dragging Jungkook over the edge too.

Jungkook shoves deep, groaning low against Jimin’s ear as his cock throbs, his hot release flooding him.

Jimin slumps forward against the wall, chest heaving, every nerve raw and buzzing. 

What the hell am I doing?

They barely manage to towel themselves off, hair still plastered wet to their foreheads, before they’re on each other again. 

Water drips everywhere as they kiss frantically, stumbling their way out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, never breaking contact.

What the hell is happening, Jimin thinks, feeling completely tangled in a net of heat and confusion. He’s never wanted someone like this. 

Jungkook pulls back to mouth at his throat, biting sharp at the line of his pulse. Jimin gasps, tips his head further back—and pauses when something catches his eyes.

There, glinting silver under the ceiling light, are the handcuffs. The ones he was wearing earlier, the ones Jungkook unlocked and took off him when they entered the room.  

Now they sit carelessly on the bedside table, the key glinting right beside them.

Something in his mind falters, stutters, stretches to untangle the mess it’s in—then sparks to life.

This might be a chance.

Jungkook’s mouth drags back up, brushing his jaw before claiming his lips again. 

Jimin quickly tears his gaze away from the cuffs and kisses him back hard, deep, his chest hammering as he steers Jungkook backward to the bed. 

This is his chance. He’ll be out of here in no time. 

The back of Jungkook’s knees hit the edge of the mattress, and he goes down without question, Jimin following, straddling his hips while he keeps kissing him. He ruts his hips to hide the way his hand slips sideways, fumbling along the nightstand until cool metal meets his fingers. 

He drowns out the clink with a moan as he pulls the cuffs closer. 

And then, just when Jungkook’s fingers trail over his sides, he moves so fast his own brain is barely able to follow. He catches Jungkook’s wrist, his fingers fumbling for a second, but then, with a click, the cuff shuts around it. 

His pulse spikes with excitement while Jungkook blinks at him, startled, lips wet and swollen, cheeks flushed. For a heartbeat he doesn’t react, just lies there as Jimin yanks his arm up toward the headboard and snaps the other cuff shut around the wood. 

Jungkook’s eyes flick to the cuff around his wrist, following the chain up to the headboard.
Only a second later, fury flashes across his face. His head snaps around toward Jimin, a furious sound ripping from his throat as he lunges, muscles flexing hard against the restraint.

But Jimin is already moving, instincts finally kicking in. He scrambles off Jungkook, snatches the key from the nightstand, then stumbles backward and out of reach. The metal digs into his palm as he clutches the key tight, his heart pounding loud in his ears.

Only slowly does it sink in that—he actually did it.

Jungkook’s shoulders strain as he yanks against the cuffs, veins standing out along his forearm. Water  drips from his hair down the cut lines of his abs, his swollen lips now pulled into a scowl as he glares at Jimin, the chains rattling uselessly above him.

Jimin laughs breathlessly.

“Looks good on you.”

Jungkook’s eyes narrow. Then he scoffs, a flat and bitter sound.

“And what now?” His lips curl into a mocking grin. “Gonna kill me and try to run? I told you—I had the windows sealed shut. Every floor is guarded.”

Jimin believes him but he turns around to check anyway.

When he pulls the curtains back, the early morning spills in, and – sure enough – the edges of the rain-slicked window are sealed with plates of metal bolted into the frame. Jimin presses his palm against it, shoving hard, but it doesn’t move, doesn’t even rattle. It’s locked down solid, no way he’s getting it open without some kind of tools.

“You’re not getting out of here, starfish.”

Jimin spins around, his mind running on overdrive as he stumbles through the room.

“We’ll see about that.”

He snatches his clothes off the floor, dragging them on with frantic, clumsy movements. Pants first, then his sweater, the fabrics sticking to his damp skin. He lets the key slide into his pocket.

“You won’t make it even one floor down,” Jungkook grunts, the cuffs clattering against the headboard as he yanks at them over and over.

Maybe I don’t need to, Jimin thinks as he bolts for the door. He has a plan.

He unlocks it, rips it open—then makes the mistake of glancing back.

His eyes wander over the wet trail they have left across the floor, then the rumpled sheets. Suddenly he grows overly aware of the smell in the room. Of sex and the sea, nasty and intoxicating. Jungkook glares at him from the bed, furious, still naked—still gorgeous.

Jimin swallows, Jungkook’s taste still lingering on his lips, the ghost of his hands still lingering on his skin. For a terrifying heartbeat, he wishes it didn’t have to end like this.

“What? Running away without killing me again?” Jungkook laughs, still tugging at the restraints. “Thought you wanted to finish the job.”

Jimin stares at him, and for a split second he actually searches inside himself for an answer—why he’s about to walk away without finishing it. Again. Then the groan of wood cuts through the air, and he realizes this is tactic. Jungkook is trying to stall him while trying to free himself. And Jimin almost fell for it.

Idiot.

He turns around and stumbles into the hallway, Jungkook’s curse echoing after him as the door slams shut. He sprints to the next room, pounding his fist against the wood, pressing his ear close. Nothing. He tries again. Silence. 

Then a muffled crack splinters from behind their door.

Shit.

He rushes to the next room, hammering harder. No answer. His pulse spikes, and he curses under his breath before he practically throws himself at the third door, pounding against it.

His heart leaps at a rustling sound, followed by footsteps.

Then the door opens a crack, a woman to peering through, a silk robe slipping off one bare shoulder, perfume spilling into the hallway, sweet and chemical.

She squints at him, makeup smudged, one iris glowing faintly with a fake cybernetic lens.

“My shift doesn’t start till seven,” she mutters.

The door begins to close, but Jimin’s hand shoots out, palm slamming flat against it, pushing it wider instead.

She looks scandalized, her red lips parting to tell him off, but Jimin steps closer, letting his voice drop into something melodic that carries that faint hum no human can resist.

“Then consider this a warm-up.” He smiles sweetly. “Come on, open door.” 

Her breath audibly stutters, the pupil in her real eye dilating, and whatever protest she was about to make dies on her tongue. She swallows hard, then steps back as if pulled by invisible strings.

“Good girl.” 

Jimin nearly jumps out of his skin when their door farther down the hall bangs open. He shoves the woman inside and follows, slamming the door shut just as heavy footsteps echo closer.

“Don’t open for him,” he snaps and hurries for the window. 

She blinks at him, dazed and confused. 

The room is dim, thick with the smell of perfume and cigarettes, the sour-sweet stench of stim packs lingering in the air, and when Jimin yanks the curtains apart, the light spilling in reveals a faint haze of smoke. 

A bang rattles the door, Jungkook’s voice shouting something in the hallway, followed by the elevator dinging faintly and a thunder of footsteps. 

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Jimin wrestles the latch open and shoves the window wide. Cold air rushes in, followed by the sound of pouring rain, and his stomach drops when he looks down—no fire escape like he’d hoped. Just a long way down. Not a dead fall, though. A flat rooftop juts out from the side building below, rain-slick and gleaming under the neon glow of a giant sign bolted to the building’s edge.

Jimin’s legs are jittery when he swings his bare feet out the window, scooting forward. There’s no time to think, no time to hesitate. There’s no time at all.

The door slams open, the woman shouting, footsteps pounding into the room. 

Jimin hurls himself off.

He hits the roof hard, shock rattling through his bones, palms stinging as he catches himself before he can skid out on the wet rooftop. He shoves upright, legs already moving, feet slapping through puddles as he runs.

Another gap. Another rooftop. He leaps, rain lashing against his face. The landing buckles his knees, pain shooting up his ankle, but he forces himself to go on.

Behind him, footsteps slam onto the roof, Jungkook’s voice tearing through the rain.

Jimin doesn’t look back. He just runs, spots a fire ladder at the far edge, and throws himself at it, hurling over the edge, sliding down the metal with his feet on each side.

By the time he hits solid ground with a splash, he’s dizzy from his racing heart and nauseous from the adrenaline in his veins. He risks one glance up—just in time to see Jungkook looming over the edge above, still shirtless, his body glistening in the rain as he glares down at him, moving to take the ladder. 

Jimin spins around and runs as fast as he can.

Days blur into weeks. Weeks into months. 

Jimin loses track of time, always moving, slipping from city to city like he used to, never staying long. 

He doesn’t allow himself much rest, almost every night he runs until his legs burn, sleeps with one eye open, wakes before the sun to move on.

The last time he saw Jungkook was two weeks ago – from a distance, on the far end of an old highway overpass. A black shape against gray sky, too far to catch him but close enough to remind Jimin he’s still being hunted.

He’s learned to stay off the main routes, to steer clear of people. Too many eyes watching, too many hands that might grab him, too many mouths that might sell him out.

But one day he has no choice.

After days of dragging himself through the choking heat of deserted wastelands, he ends up somewhere he’s been before. The skyline on the horizon is familiar. 

He’s walked in a circle. 

He needs directions.

At a rusted-out checkpoint on the edge of a half-dead industrial district, he finds a trader with silver teeth, and asks for the sea – bracing himself for the answer he’s heard too many times, that it’s gone, that it’s dead. But the man just points him toward the red zone.

He’s so shocked by the guy’s reaction that the hope doesn’t come until later when he’s already stepping into the black market the man mentioned.

There, a woman with a comms-implant wired into her jaw gives him directions farther east. The faint metallic seam along her throat catches the light when she speaks, her voice a little tinny, like it’s running through a cheap speaker.

The further east he goes, the more certain he becomes, the spark of hope in his chest blooming into something that fills him whole, that makes his heart beat faster in excitement. 

The air feels different, the nights get colder, the winds heavier. And sometimes, when the city noises die, he swears he can hear it—distant, rhythmic, like a rush. 

It’s within reach. 

Finally.

Home. 

The first thing is the smell. 

Acrid, chemical, burning in the back of his throat. It hits him long before the harbor comes into view.

Warning signs litter the roadside, their paint peeling off but the message still clear:

Danger.

Keep out.

No Entry.

Jimin’s stomach plummets before his brain has even caught on. Once it does, his face goes cold. 

The closer he gets, the worse it becomes – air so sharp it scrapes down his windpipe, lungs burning as if every inhale is cutting him open from the inside.

His fingers are trembling, legs shaking by the time he sees it. 

The sea. 

Or what it has turned into. 

For as far as his eyes can reach, the water is gone – replaced by a stretch of glowing sludge. A pool of poison, sickly green and yellow, waves rising and breaking with a hiss, steam curling up into the air. The stench is overwhelming: rot and sulfur, sharp metal and burned plastic. Death.

His vision blurs, his throat tightens, panic clawing through him like an animal trying to rip its way out. 

This can’t be real.

He stumbles forward, running before he even knows it, past the warning signs, boots slipping on ground that hisses and fumes under his weight. His lungs scream, his legs pump.

No no no—

He spots a rise in the distance, a hill that drops off into a jagged cliff on the seaward side, and hurries toward it, slipping and stumbling as he climbs the loose, lifeless slope on shaking legs.

Once he’s made it to the top, the sight wrenches the breath from his lungs all over again.

From up here he can see all the way to the horizon. 

Only, it doesn’t look like he remembers. 

The line where sea and sky should meet in different shades of clear blue is now blurred by heavy fumes rising in the distance. The sky hangs heavy with gray clouds, almost black with how thick they are, and the sea glows sickly yellow. 

Below him, the strange water moves sluggishly, and each time the slow waves hit the rock with a hiss, sickly yellow steam curls upwards until the wind whisps it away. Only when Jimin looks closer, does he notice the way the water eats away at the cliff, turning the rock brittle.  

His stomach lurches, his throat locking tight. 

His mind tries to tell him it isn’t real, that it can’t be real.

But it is.

The sea is gone. His home—gone.

A dull rush fills his ears. 

What used to be the sea has turned into something rotten that reeks of everything but life.

His knees slam into the ground painfully, his arms hanging limply by his sides, his mind screaming as it tries to understand something it cannot. 

People were right. 

His home, the only thing he’s clung to in ten years of cages and chains—gone. Ruined.

The world tilts under him. His stomach hollows out, his skin clammy when he sways where he kneels, dizzy, choking on the toxic air filling his lungs. 

For this he was running. For this he was fighting. 

What’s left for him now?

His chest squeezes tight. 

I want to go home. 

He stares at the horizon, but it feels like staring into a void. There’s no direction, no path forward. Without the sea, there’s no anchor, no reason.

I want to go home. 

He doesn’t know what to do. 

I want to go home.

His body moves before his brain does. He staggers upright, swaying on his feet. 

What’s the point anymore? 

One step forward. Then another.

The waves rush beneath him, his eyes burning, his lungs aching. 

I’m going home. 

And then he steps over the edge.

He feels his weight tip forward, his stomach lurching as his body plummets into nothing—

—until something hard clamps around his middle, punching the air out of him. 

His body jerks, his back hitting something solid, his heels scraping over the ground as he’s hauled away from the edge. He blinks, the pressure around his middle slowly turning into a shape. Arms wedged beneath his ribs, locked across his belly, fingers digging into him, holding him tight. 

His senses are flooded with the scent of sea.

“Let me go,” Jimin whispers.

“No.” 

Jungkook is breathing harshly against his ear, as if he’s been running. 

“Let me go—” Jimin squirms, trying to wrench himself free from the iron lock of those arms.  

“No.”

“Let me go!” His voice cracks as he thrashes harder, clawing at Jungkook’s arms. “Let me—Let me go! Let me go!” 

He can’t breathe. Pressure swells in his chest, hot and rising, climbing higher until his throat burns with it.

And then it rips free.

The siren’s scream tears out of him, long and raw, dragged from the deepest depths of his desperation. It shakes through his body, rattling his ribs, echoing out over the dead sea as his lungs empty. He folds forward in Jungkook’s hold, bending over from the force of it.

Black spots dance across his vision by the time the scream finally dies, leaving him gasping. His legs give out. He sinks to the ground, and Jungkook follows, arms still locked around him, not letting go.

Jimin trembles, breaths coming fast, and there’s an unfamiliar sting in his eyes. 

But sirens don’t shed tears. So instead, the fight drains out of him, all tension bleeding away until he feels hollow, scraped out, with nothing left inside. 

He doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to breathe, doesn’t want to be. 

After a long while, Jungkook pulls him gently back to his feet, and Jimin doesn’t resist. He just follows, letting himself be steered down the slope and toward the black car waiting at the foot of the cliff. The car that will bring him back to his prison.  

What does it even matter anymore. 

Jimin sits slumped in the backseat, hands bound in his lap, his head against the window, the sunlight glaring through the glass washing the world outside into pale emptiness. Tires hum over cracked asphalt as they pass dry fields, dead trees, driving along a stretch of road that never seems to end. It doesn’t really register with him anyway, his mind blank, his chest hollow. 

Beside him, Jungkook shifts and says something, but the words don’t register with him either. 

“Hey,” Jungkook’s voice is closer now. “I asked if you want some water?”

Jimin’s mouth does feel dry, but the thought of lifting his head, of answering, of drinking water, feels like more effort that he can spare. 

So he just closes his eyes, and lets Jungkook’s voice blur into the hum of the engine.

“Jimin-” 

There is a brush of fingertips on his forearm, right above where his wrists are bound together, then gone a second later. 

“Kill the aircon. He’s freezing.”

There is a huff in the front from one of the two guys Jimin didn’t bother getting a look at when he was ushered into the backseat.

“Radiation’s spiking in this area, JK. You trying to fry us?”

“You’ll live.” 

Another huff, then the cold stream of air that Jimin wasn’t even aware of stops hitting his skin. 

“You’ve been gone so long, Jeon, I almost forgot what it’s like having you breathing down our necks. Might’ve even missed it.”

Jungkook lets out a flat snort.

“Don’t feed his ego,” the other man cuts in. “We managed fine.”

“Barely.”

A short laugh follows. “Guess it’s good to have you back, kid.”

“You getting sentimental on me now, Reed?” Jungkook asks, his voice rather quiet, carrying a strange weight.

“Don’t read too much into it. Things just run smoother when you’re around. Especially now that you brought our cash cow back.”

Jimin feels Jungkook shift beside him. 

“I heard Boss wants him back in production fast,” the other guy says. Something clicks faintly, followed by a low buzz and the wet pull of breath. A second later, the car fills with a chemical-sweet smoke that curls thick in the air, filling Jimin’s nose, making his stomach turn. “Whole lab’s been on standby since we lost him.”

The other snorts. “Standby my ass. They’ve reworked the entire equipment. Saw it the other day, it’s insane.” 

There’s a questioning sound and another drag of vape. 

“They’ve put in new restraints and updated the collar. Stronger current that goes right into the neural feed at the back of the neck instead of the vocal cords. Doesn’t matter if he’s conscious or blacked-out, he’ll keep singing anyway."

There’s a whistle. “Good. Saves everyone the trouble of keeping him conscious. Those shifts were brutal.” 

A deep chuckle follows. “Yeah. And the new setup cuts prep time in half. No more waiting around for the system to warm up. Harvesting’s quicker now, which means more free hours on the schedule. Boss already has plans for how to use those too.”

There’s a tilt to his words that makes something cold prickle down Jimin’s spine. He blinks his eyes open, his vision unfocused. 

“You saying what I think you saying?”

The vape hisses again, a wet inhale and slow exhale. “Yep. He wants to auction him off. Says there’s more money to be made there.”

“Figures. Pretty boy like that? Clients will go feral.” An amused chuckle follows. “Guess that makes him a two-for-one. Generator by day, whore by night.”

Something thick and sour lodges in Jimin’s throat. There’s a rustle beside him as Jungkook seems to shift his weight again.

“Yeah, Boss already has buyers lined up,” the guy continues. “High rollers.”

“Damn, you think I could get a taste too?”

The other barks out a laugh. “No shot, dude.”

The smoke curls heavy in the air, suffocating. Jimin presses closer to the glass, the world outside flying by. 

“But maybe he’ll let us watch.” 

“Shit, imagine—bet he cries as pretty as he sings. Think we could sell that too?”

“Actually—that might be a pitch for the boss. Whole new market.” 

“Maybe if it works, he’ll let us have him after all.”

Their laughter fills the cramped space, rattling in Jimin’s ears. His eyes sting from the smoke, his heart hammering uncomfortably fast in his throat. 

“Pull over.”

Jungkook’s voice cuts through the noise so suddenly that it makes Jimin flinch. 

The laughter in the front dies down. 

“Huh? Why?” 

“Gotta take a piss.” 

The car swerves to the side, the steady hum of tires breaking, replaced by the grind of gravel under the wheels. Jimin’s temple knocks against the window with the shift. 

Once they’ve come to a halt, the door on Jungkook’s side is opened with a low pop before it’s slammed shut again, the impact vibrating through the frames. 

Jimin’s vision slowly focuses. They are still far from the next city it seems, no building in sight. 

He doesn’t think much of it when the front door is yanked open.

But then a sound jolts through his bones, sharp and violent. His ears ring, jaw snapping tight as he jerks upright, heart hammering, breath stuck in his throat.

Another blast follows, tearing the air apart, the acrid bite of gunpowder flooding the car mixing with the smell of blood that’s splattered in droplets across the windshield. 

The driver slumps against the wheel, causing the horn to blare in one endless note, shrill and grating inside Jimin’s skull. The guy in the passenger seat jerks once, body twitching, then going slack, his vape slipping from his fingers and rolling into the footwell.

Jimin stares, chest tight, breath shallow, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

The horn finally dies when Jungkook yanks the driver’s body off the wheel, dragging the dead weight out onto the gravel where it lands with a dull thud. Then he circles the car and does the same with the passenger, disposing of him on the ground.

The air stinks—blood, gun fire, and that chemical-sweet vapor still hanging in the cabin. Jimin presses himself into the backrest, heart racing, eyes wide as Jungkook slides into the driver’s seat and slams the door shut before gripping the wheel.

“What the hell are you doing?” Jimin finally manages to croak.

Jungkook doesn’t answer, his jaw set as he jerks the car into gear. The tires screech, gravel spitting out behind them as they lurch forward, the force almost sending Jimin sprawling.

“Jungkook—” His voice cracks, breath catching. “What’s going on?!”

Still nothing. Jimin notices the tremor in Jungkook’s fingers, clenched so tightly around the wheel that his knuckles go white. 

The engine growls louder as Jungkook steps onto the gas harder, speed climbing. The world outside blurs, smearing into streaks of color. Jimin’s body is pressed into his seat, his stomach flipping. 

“You’re going too fast!” His voice cracks. “Jungkook—stop! You’re gonna kill us!”

The car veers around a curve so sharp it throws Jimin sideways, his bound hands clawing at the fabric of the seat in front of him just to stay upright.

“Jungkook!”

The brakes slam. The tires scream. Jimin is flung forward, the seatbelt biting into his chest as his forehead nearly smacks the headrest in front of him. The car jolts to a violent halt.

Before he can catch his breath, Jungkook wrenches the door open and stumbles out, dropping to his knees on the asphalt. Through the open frame, Jimin sees him hunch over, his chest heaving, before he retches wetly and empties his stomach into the dirt. His shoulders shake as he spits and coughs, until there’s nothing left. He makes a wet sound as he sits back on his heels, hand trembling when he wipes the back of it over his mouth before he turns his head, eyes fixed on the road behind them, where they just left the bodies of his people behind. 

His profile is sickly pale, his jaw tight. Even from the backseat, Jimin sees the wet sheen in his eyes. 

Then he pushes himself to his feet and climbs back into the driver’s seat. Without warning, he pounds his fist into the console, once, twice, again and again, until plastic cracks under the force, causing Jimin to flinch with each strike.

Eventually, Jungkook yanks something loose from the shattered console – a small black box, wires still attached – and hurls it out the open door. It clatters onto the asphalt, sparks snapping briefly before it dies.

Jungkook pulls the door shut, fingers still trembling when he jams the key forward again. The engine roars back to life, its steady hum swallowing the silence as the car jolts back into motion. 

They drive for hours. The world outside fades from burning daylight to the bruised colors of dusk, then eventually to pitch black night that swallows the road. Jimin loses track of distance.

The entire time Jungkook doesn’t say a word, and Jimin can’t bring himself to say anything either. His thoughts loop in circles, tangling tighter and tighter until none of them make sense anymore.

Just when the fuel light starts blinking, a gas station flickers out of the dark, neon signs buzzing half-dead above the pumps. Jungkook pulls in, kills the engine, and steps out.

Through the glass, Jimin watches him. His face is pale, eyes tired, shoulders hunched. He moves fast and jerky as he fumbles with the nozzle, his chest still rising and falling too quickly, and Jimin wonders if he has even caught one full breath in the past couple of hours.

When he’s done, Jungkook disappears inside to pay, and Jimin sits frozen in the backseat, realizing the keys are still dangling from the ignition, the doors unlocked. His bound hands come up, fingers curling around the door handle before he even realizes it. He could run. Just push the door open, throw himself into the dark, and keep going. 

His heart thuds frantically at the thought. 

But then the image rises up.

The yellowish slug that once was water, the sea dead and lifeless. 

There’s nothing waiting for him. 

It hits like a stone sinking to the bottom of his chest.

He has nowhere to go, nowhere to run to.

And just like that, everything inside him deflates. 

When Jungkook comes back out, he’s carrying a rag and a spray bottle filled with bluish liquid. He climbs into the seat and mists the windshield from the inside, the sharp sting of cleaning fumes spreading through the car as he scrubs over the same areas again and again, until the dried flecks of blood start to fade.

Once he’s done, the rag is soaked deeply red. He tosses it aside as if burned by it before pulling the door shut again.

Even though Jimin doesn’t know much about human sentiment, it isn’t hard to piece it together.

Jungkook shot two of his own men—people who, from what little Jimin knows, were like family. And now he looks like he’s unraveling at the seams.

With what he did, he can most likely never go back to ReZonyx. 

He’s probably on their kill list now. They might already be searching for them, which would explain the way his tired eyes keep flicking to the shadows around the station.

When he starts the car again, for a moment Jimin almost wants to tell him to stop, to get some rest, to breathe. But the words die on his tongue. 

They drive on into the dark, the silence between them stretching thin.

More than once, Jimin wants to ask where they’re going. Why Jungkook did what he did. But Jungkook looks like he’s one word away from breaking, and Jimin doesn’t want to be there when it happens.

The ocean is calm.

Cool water caresses Jimin’s tail, smooth as silk, every flick of fins sending gentle shivers through the currents. Sunlight filters through the surface, catching on his shimmering scales. He drifts without effort, weightless, back and forth, the sea holding him gently.

Home.

He closes his eyes, lets the ocean embrace him—until his throat closes up. 

His eyes fly open, the water turns heavy, not flowing around him anymore but sticking to him.

He looks down.

From the depths, something rises. A bloated shape, sickly yellow, shining with rot. It surges upward, coming for him, and Jimin thrashes, tries to swim away, but his body won’t move. Roots, invisible and iron-tight, clamp around his tail, his wrists, holding him in place, pulling him deeper. His heart pounds in his throat as the slug-thing reaches for him, its surface bubbling, its stench filling his nose, his lungs, burning his eyes.

When it touches his skin, it feels like cold fire spreading on his body. He opens his mouth to scream, but no sound escapes—only bubbles, scattering uselessly.

And then something wraps around his middle, yanking him back. Strong, unyielding. He chokes, panics, fighting the hold.

“Let me go,” he whispers.

“No,” Jungkook’s voice answers.

Jimin jolts awake with a gasp, heaving, heart hammering so hard that he can hear the pulse in his ears and feel the pounding in his head. 

He scrambles upright, blinking hard to clear the blur from his eyes. The inside of the car comes into view piece by piece, the cracked dashboard and the worn leather seats illuminated by morning light. A faint tang of blood and fuel clings to the air, mixing with something fresh and clean. 

It’s still, and it takes his brain a moment to register that the engine isn’t running, that the steady vibration beneath him is gone. They’ve stopped.

When he sits up straighter, a dull ache in his wrists makes him look down. The bindings are gone, his hands free, the skin a little sore where the restraints dug in. He flexes them slowly. Did Jungkook cut them loose?

At the thought of Jungkook, Jimin’s gaze sweeps through the car again, only now noticing that it’s empty and Jungkook nowhere to be seen.

His eyes wander to the driver’s door—hanging open.

Only now does he realize where the freshness comes from, cutting through the stale air inside the car. Morning drifts in through the open door, cool and damp, carrying the scent of pine, wet grass, and soft earth.

Jimin leans forward, craning his neck to peer past the front seats.

The world outside looks a little pale in the overcast morning light, and the first thing coming into view is a wide meadow, stretching out from the car. His gaze drifts over the uneven patches of grass, wet with dew, following them into the distance before it lands on something that makes his fingers curl into the seat in front of him, his breath catching. 

For a moment he thinks he’s home—until the silence registers. No call of the sea. No salt heavy in the air. No wild rush of waves.

Instead, a still and smooth surface reflects the overcast sky. 

The pounding in his chest and head slows, something loosening inside him as he lets his eyes wander further. 

Mist drifts low over the still surface, curling and shifting with the faint breeze, and the water stretches so far and wide that the opposite shore is almost completely swallowed by haze, only the faint shapes of trees visible, dark and tall, their tips piercing through the fog. Beyond them, a line of mountains rises into the sky, the slopes ridged, the higher peaks covered in patches of white that stand out against the gray clouds. He follows the jagged line for a moment, eyes tracing each rise and dip, before his gaze drifts back down toward the water.

That’s when he notices the shape of a person standing by the shore, not far from the car. Broad shoulders, back turned to him.

Jungkook.

He stands there unmoving, the lake stretching out before him, his head slightly bowed as he seems to be studying something in his hand.

Jimin shifts, his body stiff as he peels himself off the seat and scoots over to push the door open. At the sound of the hinges creaking, Jungkook turns his head, watching Jimin over his shoulder. His anti-siren earplugs shimmer faintly in his ears. 

Jimin’s boots find the ground, and his legs need a moment to stop shaking when he stands up tall, the cool morning breeze brushing the skin of his arms. 

That’s when he notices the large shadow to his left, and he turns, coming face to face with the wooden walls of what seems to be a small house. The logs are rough and dark with age, a wide window further down is coated in dust, and toward the front a small porch juts out, its railing tilted and crooked. The boards of the porch are a little uneven too, just like the frame of the door that sits there in the shadows. 

Jimin frowns, turning back to Jungkook, who has his back to him again, staring out at the water. Jimin’s gaze drifts over the mountains in the distance, then back to the cabin.

And that’s when he remembers the stories. 

Jungkook’s brother owning a house in the mountains, taking Jungkook there sometimes to watch the stars. A place far outside the city zones, with nothing but trees and mountains and sky and silence.

This must be it.

Jimin swallows, his throat tight.

Jungkook never mentioned a lake. Let alone a lake this big.

Slowly, he makes his way toward the shore, each step heavy on the damp grass. Jungkook doesn’t look up, not even when Jimin comes to a stop beside him, his gaze fixed on something small in his hand. A crumpled foil pack, the logo faded and barely visible, but Jimin recognizes the type. Neuro-gum, sold in every corner store, laced with mood enhancers. 

Jungkook turns it slowly between his fingers, rubbing his thumb over the crease in the wrapper. 

“I found it inside. He loved this brand,” he mumbles, almost as if talking to himself. “They don’t sell these anymore.” 

The corner of his mouth twitches like he might smile, but it doesn’t last, only settles back into a line as he stares at the packet.

“I searched for them everywhere for a while. The smell reminded me of him.” He pauses, thumb pressing harder into the faded foil, then he chuckles flatly. “This one expired eight years ago.”

When he finally looks up, his eyes meet Jimin’s. They are lined with dark circles, the rims raw and red. Jimin can’t tell if it’s from driving too long without sleep or from crying. And if it’s from crying, whether it was for his brother or the men he shot.

“How are you feeling?” Jungkook asks.

“I—” Jimin falters, his voice hoarse, the answer tangled in his throat. How does he feel? “I don’t know.”

Jungkook nods like that makes sense. Then he turns back toward the lake. 

“It seemed a lot bigger the last time I saw it. Maybe because I was smaller.” A faint smile flickers and fades. “It’s nice in summer, but the winters here get pretty bad. But over there at the far end—” He lifts his hand, pointing across the stretch of water. “—it’s deep enough that the surface never freezes shut.” His hand drops again. “I don’t know how well you handle the cold, but if it’s too much, you could stay in the cabin.” He jerks his head toward the building behind them. “You’d have to collect firewood, though.”

Jimin blinks, unsure what’s going on. 

“I–”

“I know it’s not the same,” Jungkook cuts him off, eyes fixed on the water. “But you can swim here. Nobody knows about this place. Nobody comes here. You’d be safe. Maybe—” He licks his lips. “—maybe this lake could be your new home.”

Jimin’s gaze snaps back to the water, confusion meddling his brain.

“You—want me to live here?”

“Yes.”

Jimin frowns. Why? He wants to ask.

“What about you?” He asks instead.  

Jungkook lets out a breath, still watching the water. 

“I’d stay the night. Get some sleep, if you’d let me. Tomorrow I’ll move on.”

Jimin’s frown deepens. “Where to?”

Jungkook shrugs slowly, visibly tired. 

“I don’t know. As far away as possible, I guess.” 

He glances at Jimin with a faint smile, and something about how lost he looks right now makes Jimin’s chest tighten in a way he doesn’t recognize. He quickly looks away and huffs. 

“What? Afraid I’d drown you here if you stayed too long?”

“Yes.”

When Jimin turns to look at him, Jungkook doesn’t meet his eyes, but the set of his jaw and the way his shoulders hold themselves make the seriousness clear.

“You said you’ll finish what you’ve started one day. And I believe you.”

Jimin presses his lips together, partly because he doesn’t know what to say, partly to keep himself from saying something stupid. Silence stretches between them, broken only by the rustle of wind and the far away call of a loon over the water.

“So you’re running away from me,” Jimin eventually says. 

Jungkook gives a flat, humorless chuckle. 

“Don’t let it get to your head, starfish. Plenty of people want me dead now, after what I did.”

The sound of the nickname, half-mocking, half-familiar, makes Jimin cross his arms over his chest protectively.

“Why did you do it?”

“I don’t know.”

Something about that sparks hot anger in Jimin’s chest. His jaw tightens.

“If you had just brought me back to them, you could be cozy at home right now. Drinking with those friends you killed.”

Jungkook visibly winces at the words, his shoulders flinching first, before the tension ripples up his jaw. His eyes shut briefly.

“I suppose so—” He manages after a while, voice rough.

“So why?” Jimin presses, surprised himself by how bitter he sounds, before a sharp humorless laugh leaves his throat. “Don’t tell me you’ve grown fond of me.” 

But Jungkook doesn’t laugh. Instead, his gaze drops to the crumpled packet in his hand, and he sighs. 

“Hating you was easy. But I think—” His voice falters, his thumb worrying the foil. “—I think hating you made me hate myself, too. Because I knew he would’ve hated me for what I’ve become.”

Jimin bites his tongue so hard he can taste copper. He hates this feeling. He knows Jungkook killing his men to set him free and bringing him here – bringing him to this lake – is something Jungkook probably thinks of as a favor, maybe even some kind of mercy. And the worst part is, some traitorous part of Jimin feels that way too.

“You should’ve just let me die.” 

The words slip out before he can stop them, and he quickly turns toward the water. The clouds have split open above, sunbeams spilling through, glittering across the surface.

“But I don’t want you to die.”

At that, Jimin snaps his gaze back to Jungkook, but before he can say anything, Jungkook goes on.

“You know—”

He hesitates, then looks at Jimin. His smile is small and sad, but somehow more honest than anything Jimin has ever seen from him.

“I think he would’ve liked you. I think, if you two had met, you would’ve been friends.” Jungkook’s eyes linger a moment longer before he turns back toward the water. “He loved the sea so much. Now that it’s gone—” In the cold light, the pink of his scar looks almost raw against his pale skin. “—now that it’s gone, you’re the only thing that’s left of it.” He visibly swallows. “So, in a way, you’re the only thing that’s left of him.”

When Jimin wakes again, he’s wrapped in the cool quiet of the lake’s depths. The water flows gently around him, sunlight filtering in from above, reaching for him but breaking apart before it can touch the bottom. He blinks slowly, his body reluctant to move. The lake water is softer than the sea he remembers—less biting against his skin. It feels strange, and weirdly soothing. 

His thoughts take a moment to drift back into place, and only after a while does he realize that – with the sun this high up already – he must’ve slept an entire day and night.

There’s an uncomfortable tug in his chest as he rises upward with quick strokes of his tail, and when he breaks through the surface, he isn’t surprised to be met with—quiet. 

The water laps faintly at the shore, a breeze stirs through the trees—but beyond that, there’s nothing.

He drags in a breath, his chest expanding painfully after not breathing any air for so long, and scans the area. 

The car is gone. The cabin, where smoke had curled from the chimney the last time he saw it, now sits dark and still.

His chest tightens with a slow, squeezing ache. He stares at the cabin until his eyes start burning, waiting for a flicker of movement, listening for the sound of a car. But no matter how long he stares, there’s nothing. The place is empty.

Jungkook is gone.

The realization makes his stomach sink heavily.

Somehow, he thought there would’ve been some kind of goodbye. 

Just one last word. 

Just one last time breathing in the wild scent of the sea. 

Instead, there’s only the faint smell of sweet pine and damp earth, and the echo of his heartbeat in his ears.

He swallows hard.

“Coward,” he mutters.

Then he turns and dives under again, letting the weight of the water close over his head and pull him back into its silence.

Jimin will never get used to the creatures of the lake.

The fish are brainless and jittery things, darting back and forth as if chased by shadows that aren’t there, bumping into each other, into him, and then scattering like he’s the nuisance. The crabs aren’t much better, their shells soft, their pincers clicking weakly when they snap at him, trying to look dangerous but only managing to look clumsy. And the plants—they just drift, thin and pale, swaying in water that barely moves, nothing like the tall kelp forests of the sea.

Everything feels smaller here. Duller.

And the way they talk—Jimin can’t make sense of it. Their voices are full of odd inflections, their sentences nothing but garbled nonsense and high-pitched words. When he tries to answer, they either blink at him in confusion or giggle among themselves, leaving him with the uncomfortable suspicion that he’s the one who sounds strange.

The only one who isn’t unbearable is the mountain spirit.

She comes down from the peaks every other day with her clay jugs, filling them at the shoreline before hauling them back up the slope. She’s a tiny thing, old as the stone she climbs, her hair silver and wild. Unlike the fish, she doesn’t waste time with babbling. She speaks in short, clipped phrases that Jimin understands without strain, and she doesn’t treat him like he’s strange, but rather as if his presence here is nothing unusual at all. They say spirits like her can see the future, and Jimin wonders if she’s been expecting him all along. But he never asks her. It’s not like they are friends or whatever, it’s just that she’s the only decent one here. 

The rest is insufferable, and Jimin keeps telling himself that both they and their stupid lake can go to hell, because all of this is ridiculous and he doesn’t care.

And yet—when one afternoon a shadow cuts across the water, a huge bird with sharp talons circling overhead, clearly about to attack, Jimin’s chest twists with something he hasn’t felt in a long time. 

Sharp and raw anger, hot and all-consuming.

Seeing those tiny creatures in the lake scatter in panic, fish vanishing between weeds, crabs wedging themselves under rocks, how everything seems to shrink back—and the thought of them being torn apart by that bird—fills him with rage. 

Before he even realizes it, he surges upward with powerful strokes, breaking through the surface, his fangs bared in a hiss, his claws slicing through the air. He misses the bird by an inch, but it’s enough to make it jolt back midair, wings faltering, before it veers off with a screech, scattering some feathers as it retreats into the sky and disappears. 

The lake falls silent. Then, little by little, the creatures creep back, swarming around him with their endless babble.

After that day, the fish no longer crash into him but circle close, almost protectively. The crabs leave small shells and smooth stones for him, like little offerings. Even the thin lake plants seem to lean toward him whenever he drifts past.

Somehow, they’ve decided he’s their guardian.

Jimin tells them it’s ridiculous, over and over again, but they don’t stop.

And slowly, though he’d never admit it, he stops minding. 

They’re still strange, still nothing like the sea.

But they’re his now.

He’s long since lost track of the days, but when the nights grow colder, when frost rims the shore and thin sheets of ice creep across the edges, Jimin knows it must have been months since Jungkook left him here.

The colder it gets, the more often Jimin thinks of him. The harder it gets to push the thoughts away.

He wonders where Jungkook has gone, what he’s doing now. Wonders if he’s still running, or if he’s found a place to rest. 

Wonders if he’s even still alive.

The last thought turns his stomach, leaving a sour feeling behind.

He remembers Jungkook standing at the edge of the lake with that gum packet in his hand, the sound of his voice when he said his brother would’ve liked Jimin. He remembers the hunch of his shoulders when he retreated into the cabin—the last time Jimin saw him. 

And he remembers his scent—salt, and wind, and something wild. 

Jimin tells himself he doesn’t care, that it doesn’t matter, but he catches himself more and more often wishing he could breathe that scent in again, longing for it even. 

It unsettles him. 

Jungkook is the reason he was in chains, the reason his voice was used, forced out of him until he thought he’d go mad. Jungkook dragged him from the sea, locked him in a tank, stood by as they broke him. He should hate him—he does hate him.

And yet—He also remembers the cell they shared, the way pain cut them both open, the times Jungkook held him when Jimin was breaking apart. He remembers the kisses, the desperate pull of teeth and hands, the way rage bled into something else that he couldn’t get enough of. 

He remembers Jungkook saving him from jumping into the dead sea. And he remembers Jungkook turning his back on his own people, gunning down his men, offering Jimin freedom instead of dragging him back to that lab.

It makes no sense. 

Jungkook should have been the end of him. And somehow, he became the only reason Jimin is still here.

Maybe that’s why the thought of him won’t go away. Because Jungkook is tangled into every step of his story now. His grief, his rage, his survival. Because even though Jimin can’t decide if he wants to claw at him or breathe him in—he can’t untangle himself from him either.

That feeling is what drives him to shore one cold afternoon, the first time since he entered the lake.

His claws dig into the frozen earth as he drags himself out, scales melting into skin, his tail shrinking into shaky legs.

The frozen grass crunches under his bare feet, the winter air biting at his wet skin as he makes his way toward the porch. Now and then, stones dig into his soles, making him stumble with a hiss, and by the time he reaches the steps he has to grip the wooden railing, steadying himself on legs still remembering how to walk.

Once he’s finally reached the door, he pauses, throat tight, before curling his fingers around the handle and pulling it open.

The hinges groan, and stale air spills out to meet him, heavy with the smell of old wood and dust. It makes him want to cough as he steps over the threshold. 

Inside, the cabin is small, dim, and feeling empty even with all the furniture still in place. 

There’s a table with a single chair shoved back from it, as if Jungkook had sat there and never pushed it in again. Against the wall stands a mostly empty shelf with a few books slouched together, and in the far corner a small wooden kitchen is built into nook. A door, left half open, seems to lead to a bedroom, and the faint smell of burned wood lingers in the air, though the fireplace is cold and gray, its ashes long dead.

Jimin steps further inside, the door falling shut behind him, floorboards creaking under his weight. He draws in a deep breath before he can stop himself, hoping to catch the faintest trace of sea that might still be clinging to the air. But there’s nothing. Only dust.

His wet feet leave dark marks on the wood, his hair – which has gotten longer again – dripping cold down his neck and shoulders, and he frowns, not even sure what he’s doing here. 

Looking for something? Anything Jungkook might have left behind? Proof that he’d really been here? A hint of where he might’ve gone?

That last thought startles him. 

What would he even do with that kind of knowledge?

He makes his way through the room slowly, his fingertips brushing over the edge of the table, then along the window sill, leaving faint streaks in the dust. His steps creak against the boards as he turns, and that’s when he notices something small and silver on the mantle above the fireplace. A frame, flat and rectangular, catching what little light falls in through the dusty glass.

He reaches for it without thinking, the metal frame cool under his fingers as he lifts it down.

A picture.

And in it, two faces look back at him.

The first is a boy, no older than ten. His smile is wide, open, his eyes crinkled into crescents, his whole expression shining with a joy so unguarded it makes Jimin’s chest clench. He doesn’t need more than a second to recognize young Jungkook.

The second person is a young man holding him on his lap, in his late teens or early twenties maybe. His arm is wrapped around the boy, his head tipped toward him. He’s laughing too, their faces so alike it’s impossible not to know he’s Jungkook’s brother.

Jimin can’t look away. 

The photo radiates life, warmth, a happiness so bright it almost hurts to see. Jungkook’s scrunched nose, his hands gripping his brother’s arm. His brother’s hold, tight and protective.

And the thought gnaws at him, that in this moment everything was perfect, but one day all of that joy would be torn away.

Because of him.

He stares and stares—at little Jungkook’s flushed cheeks, at the brightness that he knows will eventually be wiped away forever. He stares until his vision blurs, his eyes burning, and when he closes them, something warm and wet slips down his cheek.

Sirens don’t cry.

And yet, here he is, shedding a tear for a human he drowned—and for one whose life he shattered with it. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

The words are swallowed by the silence and emptiness of the cabin. He keeps staring at their faces, as if to punish himself more by looking harder. His chest tightens and tightens until it’s almost too much to bear.

He sets the frame back, but the ache doesn’t leave. If anything, it grows heavier, spreading through him—and then it forms into something familiar. Something he hasn’t felt in a while. 

A tug. A pull. Deep inside him.

Something is calling him.

The sea is calling him. 

He brings his hand to his chest, fingers curling over the spot where his heart is hammering.

The sea is gone, so why—?

He listens to the feeling, to the pull, trying to make sense of it. 

Jungkook’s words echo in his mind.

“He loved the sea so much. Now that it’s gone you’re the only thing that’s left of it. So, in a way, you’re the only thing that’s left of him.”

Jimin presses his lips together, swallowing around the tightness in his throat. 

Somehow, in the cruelest way, Jungkook is the only thing left of the sea, too. Because he’s carried its mark ever since the day Jimin tried to kill him.

And maybe, Jimin realizes with a shallow breath, maybe it was never the sea calling to him all this time.

Maybe it was Jungkook.

The streets are narrow and broken, patched here and there with slabs of metal that creak under the weight of his steps. The neon signs above glow weakly against the gray sky, some flickering in broken rhythms, others dead altogether, their glass tubes shattered and dusted with ice. 

This city is quieter than the others, clearly almost deserted. In a couple of years, nobody will be living here anymore. 

Jimin pulls his jacket tighter and his hood lower, though the fabric is too thin to shield him from the way the cold gnaws at him, seeping into his skin and into his bones. He knew the respirator he’s gotten was of bad quality from the way the city fumes still slipped through and started stinging the back of his throat after a while. He sees it now too, in the thin curls of fog that leak out around the edges with every breath, dissipating into the cold.

He’s been on the road for weeks now, following the pull that keeps tugging at him like a hook lodged into his chest, dragging him onward.

Back at the lake, the creatures had tried to keep him from leaving, the crabs pinching at his fins, weeds curling tight around his fingers, the fish buzzing at his ears with their stubborn complaints. No matter how many times he told them he would return, that he was only going to look for someone, they refused to let him go.

He felt guilty, more than he wanted to admit, so he asked the mountain spirit to watch over them while he’s gone. Even now he can’t stop feeling bad for leaving them like that, and he wonders when he’s gotten so soft.

By now, he can feel a faint fatigue settle in his muscles, the urban rot creeping into his body after spending so much time in his human form and without water. He knows he should stop, find a room with a bathtub or something. But the pull has become more insistent ever since he entered this city, and he can’t bring himself to take a break. Not when he’s this close.

The feeling grows stronger with every step, until it’s no longer a dull ache in his chest but a thrumming urgency that makes his pulse race.

His breaths rasp against the inside of the respirator, shallow and uneven, and he quickens his pace, turning into the next street, almost tripping over broken pavement, before stumbling to a halt when something cuts through the stink of fumes.

His hands fly up, fumbling with the clasps of the mask. He rips it down and drags in a breath.

Salt. Wind. The sea.

He spins on the spot, eyes darting over the empty street, desperate to catch anything before it fades again. A row of shops with peeling signs lines one side. Further down, rusted gates open into shadowed warehouses.

Before he knows it, he’s moving again, faster and faster, driven by the pull, until he’s running, the pounding of his steps echoing off the walls.

He rounds a corner—

—and stops dead in his tracks. 

There, crouched low in the opening of a garage with its door rolled up, someone works over a half-dismantled motorbike. Tools litter the ground, a tang of oil hanging thick in the air. The guy’s head tilts as he leans in, his profile familiar. The slope of his nose, the line of his jaw, the curve of his shoulders. The faint shimmer of earplugs in his ears.

The pull in Jimin’s chest tightens like a fist, and his throat feels too small, breath catching. There’s a restless heat in his hands that makes his fingers twitch. He takes a step forward, then another, his eyes locked on Jungkook, unable to look away. 

He’s wearing a thick jacket and a beanie, and the hair peeking out from under it isn't pitch black anymore. Instead, it’s blond. His fingers are stained with oil, and there is a smudge of grease on his jaw too, his brows drawn tight in concentration.

When Jimin reaches the open mouth of the garage, Jungkook finally notices him and looks up.

“Shop’s clo—”

The words cut off as his gaze lands on Jimin. His eyes go wide, lips parting, the wrench slipping from his grip and clattering onto the ground before his hand flies up to his ear, fingers briefly touching the anti-siren earplug, as if to make sure it’s still there, before he lets his hand sink again. 

His nose and cheeks are pink from the cold, and Jimin’s shoulders almost sag in relief at the sight of the familiar scar. He drags in another breath through his nose, letting the scent settle in his chest, willing his heart to steady.

“Blonde doesn’t suit you,” he hears himself say, and it sounds weirdly small, making him feel a little stupid. 

Jungkook’s mouth snaps shut. He stares at Jimin a moment longer before his throat works around a hard swallow, Adam’s apple visibly bobbing. Then he pushes himself to his feet, movements stiff as he glances over his shoulder into the dimly lit back of the garage where muffled voices and clatter can be heard.

“I’m taking my break,” he calls out.

“Sure,” someone answers.

His gaze flicks back to Jimin, his expression guarded as he steps closer.

“Not here,” he mutters, averting his eyes. Then he strides past Jimin, out into the street, and Jimin trails after him, wondering why his pulse is thrumming so hard in his ears. 

The streets are quiet, the sound of their boots only interrupted by the faint honk of a horn in the distance. They don’t walk far. Jungkook cuts down a side street, slipping past a chain-link fence with a huge gap at the side. Jimin follows him through it and finds himself in what seems to be a playground. Or rather, the remnants of it. The paint on the swings has peeled, revealing a dull gray, the chains stiff with rust, the ladder of the slide leaning to one side. This place clearly hasn’t seen children in years, the air stinking of damp metal and rubber. 

Jungkook stops in the middle of it all, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. 

For a moment, he just stands there, his breath rising in faint white clouds, before he turns to face Jimin. There is something flat in his eyes, and only now Jimin notices the tiredness. A tiredness that he knows all too well because it stared back at him from every mirror when he was the one on the run. Seeing that expression now on Jungkook’s face, Jimin can’t help but think of the little boy in the photograph. The one who laughed so brightly, eyes crinkled and alive. 

He wonders when Jungkook laughed like that for the last time. 

“Here to finish the job?” Jungkook finally asks, voice dry. 

Jimin blinks, confused for a moment, before he understands. Jungkook is asking if he’s here to kill him. His gaze wanders to the earplugs in Jungkook’s ears.

“Have you worn those all this time?” He wets his lips, chapped from the cold. “Because you were scared I’d come back for you?”

Jungkook’s mouth tightens, and he pulls his hands out of his pockets to cross his arms. 

“You’re not the only one after me. And not the only one with a siren’s voice at their disposal.”

Jimin frowns. Then it hits him. Even his recorded voice, working rather like a drug, can leave someone defenseless. He’s seen before how humans react to those recordings, how their eyes glaze over, how disoriented they get, how easy it would be to attack someone in that state. 

It irks him. The thought that someone would utilize his voice to kill Jungkook. 

Fucking assholes.

He huffs, flexing his cold fingers in his pockets. 

“I’m not here to kill you.”

Jungkook tilts his head, clearly not believing him. 

“Why then?”

“Because–” Jimin stops short as his thoughts begin to trip over each other. 

Why is he here? What did he think he’d accomplish, dragging himself across half the country just to find Jungkook? To make sure he’s alive? To catch one more breath of salt in the air?

He swallows, his throat dry. 

If that’s all, he could technically turn away now, let their story end here for good. But the very idea twists in his gut, forming into something ugly. He realizes that he doesn’t want to walk away. He doesn’t want this to end. 

“I’m here because—” He drags his gaze away, letting it drift over the deserted playground. “There’s this cabin by my lake.” The words are awkward on his tongue. “And it’s—kind of wasteful that it’s left empty all the time.”

When he looks back at Jungkook, the other’s frown has deepened, clear confusion written all over his face. Then, after a moment, his brows lift slowly, wandering higher and higher as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing. 

“You want me to—what? Live there?”

Jimin presses his lips together, his shoulders tight.

“You’d be safe.”

Jungkook lets out a humorless chuckle. 

“Would I?”

“I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t harm you.”

“That’s new.”

Jimin exhales sharply, fighting the heat rising in his nape.

“Look—that place belongs to you. You left it behind for me, and I–” He swallows, because the words feel heavy all of a sudden. “I know what you did for me. You didn’t have to do all that, especially after what I did to you. But you did and—” His eyes flick away again because somehow, he can’t stand to look at Jungkook. His fingers curl into fists inside his pockets, nails digging into his palms. “And I don’t forget something like that.” 

 He feels Jungkook’s stare on him, and it takes a while for Jungkook to speak up.

“You want to pay me back? Is that it? That’s what you came here for, with—” His eyes wander up. “—with your pink hair on display like that? Putting yourself out in the open?” 

Jimin quickly reaches up to tug his hood lower. He’d cut his hair short again, but in his rush never found the time to dye it. He figured with it being winter, it would stay hidden under a hat or hood anyway. But running through the streets earlier must have swept his hood back enough to expose it. 

“I’m not talking about paying you back. I’m just saying that it’s ridiculous that you’ve got a whole house somewhere safe, and you leave it behind because you think I might do something.” 

“Can you fault me? You said you’ll kill me one day.”

“And just now I said I won’t harm you.”

“And I don’t believe you.” 

Silence drops between them, a cold gust of wind sweeping over the area, causing the rusted swing chains to rattle faintly. 

“Then don’t believe me,” Jimin mutters, his breath fogging in the cold as his eyes wander over the cracks in the asphalt. “But I can see you’re tired. I know you are. Running wears you down—I know that.”

When he looks up, he catches a flicker of something unreadable cross Jungkook’s expression. 

“It’s not like I’d be thrilled to have you living there either,” he goes on. “But you can come back without having to fear me.” He gives a small shrug. “You’ll just have to take my word for it. And I’ll have to trust you not to hurt me again, too.”

It’s the middle of summer when Jimin is woken by a low, muffled rumble filtering through the water. At first it doesn’t make sense, the fish around him darting back and forth anxiously, scales flashing in quick bursts. He blinks, still feeling a little sluggish with sleep when he pushes toward the surface to check what’s going on.

The water grows warmer with every stroke, the morning sun already strong overhead. At least the rain from the night before has left the lake with a faint freshness.

Breaking through the surface, he squints against the sun, eyes adjusting slowly as he circles a jagged rock jutting out from the mountainside, his tail brushing over the slick moss against its base. 

And then he freezes.

In the distance, right beside the abandoned cabin, something glints silver in the sunlight. 

A car.

His chest lurches, heart stuttering. 

Could it be—?

He dives under again, tail moving with more urgency now as he surges through the depths, a pull building in his chest so strong it almost hurts. Nearing the shore, he slows down, slipping into the reeds on the side, breaking the surface as carefully as possible, until only his eyes are above the water.

The car is still there, its trunk open, the cabin door ajar. 

His chest tightens when movement flickers in the doorway and a person steps out.

Jungkook is dressed in a loose tank and shorts, hair still blond but even from here Jimin can see the dark roots pushing through. 

He watches as Jungkook makes his way down the porch and to the car, where he leans into the trunk. When he straightens again, he holds a box in his arms, turning back toward the cabin, carrying it inside.

Something warm flutters behind Jimin’s ribs, almost a little dizzying. His lips twitch into a smile before he sinks beneath the water again.

Jungkook came back.

At first, Jimin only watches. He lingers in the reeds while Jungkook moves through his days with a rhythm Jimin slowly learns. At dawn, he leaves the cabin for a run through the woods, his figure vanishing between the trees. When he returns, he disappears inside for a while, then comes back out to work. Fixing the windows, hauling wood, sometimes just sitting on the porch tinkering with something Jimin doesn’t understand.

A couple of times, Jungkook takes the car and drives off. Those moments squeeze something tight in Jimin’s chest, a sharp mix of regret for not approaching him and anger at himself for caring at all. Relief only comes when the silver car rolls back up the drive and Jungkook steps out again. One time he brings back a power generator so huge the trunk doesn’t close around it and it takes him ages to get it out and maneuvering it around the back of the cabin.  

The days blur together like that. Jimin notices how Jungkook sometimes pauses on the porch, gaze drifting out over the water, as if searching for him. And every time, Jimin dives under before he can be seen. He doesn’t know exactly why, but he thinks it might be worry. Worry that – if he comes too close – Jungkook might vanish again.

Until one afternoon. 

The sun blazes hot, the air heavy, and Jungkook crouches on the porch, hammer in hand as he works at a loose board. Jimin drifts closer than he means to, pulled by a restlessness in his chest. The air tastes faintly of salt, and maybe that’s why the words slip out before he can stop them.

“Hi.”

Jungkook’s head snaps up. For a moment, he only stares, the hammer dangling loose in his hand, a nail between his teeth. Then he blinks, clears his throat, and pulls the nail from his mouth.

“Hi.”

They watch each other across the distance, the silence heavy with everything unsaid. After a moment, Jungkook shifts, sets his tools aside, and rises to his feet. His steps toward the shore are careful, and he stops just out of reach for Jimin, the anti-siren tech gleaming in his ears. 

“I wasn’t sure you’d still be here.” 

“Disappointed that I am?”

Jungkook only shrugs, eyes flicking across the water. 

“No.” He pauses, before his eyes find Jimin’s again. “What are you up to all day?”

Jimin tilts his head, wondering if he should mention the ridiculous summer games the lake creatures are organizing, and the fact that somehow, they’d made him the referee. But he decides against it. 

“Nothing much,” he says instead. “Just keeping an eye on things.”

Jungkook tilts his head. “On me?”

“Maybe.”

As summer wears on, their talks stretch longer. Sometimes Jungkook sits at the edge of the lake, elbows braced on his bent knees. Other times he leans against the great willow that droops over the water, its branches dipping low enough to brush the surface. It’s a dangerous spot—close enough that Jimin could drag him under if he wanted. And Jimin knows that Jungkook knows that. Yet he still stands there, and Jimin tries not to feel the strange flicker of relief. 

Over time something between them shifts and loosens. 

The air isn’t quite so heavy anymore, and even the lake itself seems to notice. The first few times Jungkook appeared, the water had erupted in panic—fish scattering in frantic bursts, crabs vanishing into cracks, weeds shrinking back. But now, they’re more curious than anything. A few brave ones even linger where Jungkook’s shadow falls over the water, their little bodies hovering as they watch him. 

Jimin would never admit it, but something inside him swells with pride that they no longer see him as a threat. That, in some quiet way, they’ve started to accept Jungkook here too.

After a while, their conversations deepen in ways Jimin never would’ve expected. Jungkook tells him how he and his brother lost their parents, his voice steady, like he’s repeated the story enough times to smooth out his voice at the right times. But Jimin can feel the heaviness behind it, the weight of each word. 

Then Jungkook asks about his family, and Jimin stares at him for a long moment, then at the water around him. He’s never put this into human words before, but he tries.

He tells Jungkook that sirens don’t have families the way humans do. That they’re born alone in the sea, raised by the currents and the voices of those who came before. That every siren carries fragments of songs left behind by their ancestors, like echoes etched into bone. He explains how sirens can go months without speaking to anyone, because the sea fills the emptiness, and because words are rarely needed when everything hums with song.

Jungkook listens, his brows drawn tight, head tilted like he’s trying to piece it together. He asks a silly question twice, but Jimin doesn’t point it out. Instead, he answers them, patient in a way he doesn’t recognize in himself. And when the same blankness lingers in Jungkook’s eyes, Jimin just chuckles instead of feeling annoyed. Maybe some things will always belong only to him and the ocean, and it pleases him that Jungkook at least tries to understand. It’s so different from the conversations they once had at ReZonyx, when every word between them dripped with hatred. This change is one he enjoys more than he ever expected.

Though, some things remain unchanged. 

He notices that Jungkook never takes the earplugs out. They catch the light whenever he turns his head. A constant reminder of the distrust that still lingers between them, and Jimin can’t fault Jungkook for it. Not when he himself can’t explain why the urge to kill Jungkook, an urge that once filled his entire being, has gone completely quiet.

Instead, day by day, he finds himself waiting for their talks. Waiting for the sound of Jungkook’s voice, for his presence at the water’s edge. He looks forward to it even.

Jungkook’s sleeves are rolled up past his elbows, and he crouches in the dirt with a hammer in hand. He’s building something again—a rectangle, Jimin realizes, made of wood, flat on the ground. 

“What’s that going to be?” Jimin asks, his voice carrying across the water.

Jungkook doesn’t look up. 

“A bed for vegetables,” he says, lining up a plank with one hand and driving a nail in with the other.

Jimin tilts his head. “Summer is almost over, isn’t it a bit late?”

Jungkook huffs. “Yeah, should’ve gotten to it sooner, but maybe I can still grow some radish.” He glances at Jimin. “How do you even know that?” 

Jimin purses his lips and crosses his arms under water, feeling offended. 

“I’m not stupid.” 

The corner of Jungkook’s mouth twitches. “Sorry, just surprised.”

Jimin just huffs, letting it slide. Instead, his gaze catches on the flex of tendons along Jungkook’s forearms each time he swings the hammer, the small shifts in his shoulders and back as he drives another nail into the wood. He doesn’t realize how long he’s been watching, until Jungkook pauses to reach into a small box at his side, rummaging through the nails. 

One slips through his fingers, tumbling to the ground and rolling down the slope of the shore. With a faint plink it disappears into the water. 

Before Jungkook can even finish the curse under his breath, Jimin is already moving. He dives under, chasing the faint glint of metal as it sinks. His fingers close around it just before it hits the lakebed, and he pushes upward again.

When he breaks through the surface, Jungkook is already crouching at the edge, extending his hand slowly. Jimin lifts the nail toward him, his dripping fingertips brushing Jungkook’s skin as he lets it fall into Jungkook’s palm, the touch brief but sending a jolt straight through his chest.

“Thanks,” Jungkook says quietly, closing his hand around and shifting back again.

Jimin only blinks at him, his tail curling in the water beneath.

Later that day, when the sun has sunk low and the sky glows orange, Jimin drifts in the cool depths of the lake, still replaying the scene from earlier in his mind when the whispers ripple through the water, the fish giggling. 

He’s learned to understand them by now. ‘The human is here,’ they say.

Jimin frowns and moves to make his way upward. 

He breaks through the surface just as Jungkook turns around, the sound of the splash making him stop in his tracks and look over his shoulder.

“Oh—” He turns fully to face him. “There you are.” His hand comes up to rub the back of his neck. “I was wondering—uh—” He trails off. 

Jimin tilts his head, brows rising at the awkward display. 

“Yes?”

“Like—” Jungkook glances toward the cabin and then back at Jimin. “I cooked too much food, and I thought maybe—we could eat together?”

Jimin’s eyebrows wander even higher. 

And that’s how he finds himself sitting at the small wooden table inside the cabin, wearing a set of Jungkook’s clothes. The sweatpants hang loose on his hips, the shirt soft and clinging damply to his shoulders from where his hair still drips down his neck. Jungkook had shoved the bundle into his hands with an awkward mutter of, “These’ll do,” making a point of not looking at Jimin’s bare skin. Jimin found it both ridiculous and strangely charming. Ridiculous, because he holds no sentiment over this human body, let alone shame, and because Jungkook has seen all of it before anyway. And charming, because it meant Jungkook cares enough to pretend otherwise.

On the table sits a steaming pan of potatoes with reheated canned vegetables and jerky bits, all of it thrown together looking a bit suspicious, but tasting surprisingly good. The flavor of garlic and spice spreads on his tongue, the heat of the food warming his cheeks.

Jungkook eats without looking at him, but his scent fills every corner of the small cabin. Warm, human, the wild sea threaded with soap. Jimin breathes it in despite himself. His pulse feels loud in his ears, and he has to remind himself to keep chewing, keep moving, when all he wants to do is lean closer.

He tries to ignore the picture above the fireplace that keeps reminding him how strange it is, that he is here, sitting at a table with Jungkook, eating like this, when everything between them is still layered with shadows neither of them can escape.

Eating together becomes routine, and with Jimin spending more time on land, Jungkook takes to roping him into whatever task he’s working on. At first, Jimin wonders why these things are suddenly his problem—like steadying a crooked plank while Jungkook hammers in nails, or hauling buckets of water from the lake to rinse out tools, or holding a flashlight when the sun dips too low. Sometimes it’s more absurd, like helping untangle a bundle of old extension cords Jungkook scavenged from the city together with a second power generator, or just standing there with arms crossed while Jungkook tries to argue that ‘moral support’ is, in fact, a job.

But Jimin doesn’t complain. Against all reason, he begins finding it strangely enjoyable working alongside Jungkook. Maybe it’s because he’s closer to the scent of the sea like this. Or maybe it’s because of the little touches that come with it. The brush of Jungkook’s fingers wrapping around his wrist to adjust the way he holds a hammer. The firm pressure of a palm at the small of his back when Jungkook nudges him out of the way before walking past him. A fleeting brush of fingers when they pass tools back and forth. A hand steadying his waist when Jimin wobbles on his tiptoes trying to reach for something. 

Each touch is brief, casual enough to pass unnoticed, but Jimin notices them all.

And he knows Jungkook notices that he notices. 

Even when the days get colder, Jungkook keeps working outside. One evening, Jimin watches from the water as he swings an axe into fresh wood, chest bare, skin slick with sweat despite the bite of autumn air. Each movement sends muscles flexing across his arms and shoulders, his back rippling with strength as the axe drives deep into the logs. His hair sticks damply to his temples, chest rising and falling with every breath.

Jimin can’t tear his eyes away, heat coiling low in his belly, sharp and insistent, every swing making it worse. The curve of Jungkook’s spine, the gleam of sweat sliding down his chest. 

He wants to lick it away, dig his fingers into the hard lines of him. He wants so much it hurts. 

That night, the ache gnaws at him until he can’t stand it anymore. A restless itch under his skin, low and insistent, pushing him toward the shore. He almost laughs at himself, feeling a little foolish and out of his depths at what he’s about to do, but that doesn’t stop him. 

He stumbles onto land, making his way up the path that leads up to the cabin. Warm light glows behind the window, and once he’s reached the door he hesitates for a moment, then knocks. 

When there’s no answer, he pushes it open and slips inside.

The main room is empty, the fire burned low, shadows stretching long across the floorboards. Jimin frowns. Is Jungkook in bed already? 

“Jungkook?” 

No answer. 

He makes his way through the room and peers around the corner in the back. 

That’s when a sound reaches him. The steady rush of water from behind the closed bathroom door. Opposite to it, the bedroom door stands ajar, and Jimin swallows heavily when the faint scent of storm and tide reaches him. It tugs at him, tightening his chest, and before he can stop himself his legs move and he steps inside. 

The room is simple. A bed, a nightstand with a lamp and – Jimin does a double take – beside the lamp, placed there carelessly, are Jungkook’s earplugs. They glint in the dim light, the thin wires inside glowing faintly.

Jimin stares at them for a long moment, fingers twitching before he reaches out. They’re light in his palm, smaller than they ever seemed in Jungkook’s ears. He rubs his thumb across the flat side, the surface smooth. Such a little thing, having such a big impact. 

He inhales deeply, then turns and carries them out the room, setting them down on the sideboard right by the bedroom door, where Jungkook will see them the moment he steps out of the bathroom.

Then he returns to the bedroom, the pull even stronger now. He takes in the sheets on the bed, stepping closer, the scent of the sea increasing. Before he knows it, he carelessly sinks down on the mattress, the sheets soft against his bare skin. He lies down, presses his face into the pillow. The scent is everywhere—salt, wind, the tide, surrounding him, seeping into him until the restlessness in his chest finally eases.

He breathes, in and out, in and out. 

His eyes drift shut, and before he realizes it, sleep takes him. 

When he wakes, it’s to a touch so light it almost feels like part of his dream. Fingers ghost through his damp hair, down the curve of his shoulder, tracing his side before skimming the dip of his waist. Jimin’s eyelids flutter, and when he opens them, he comes face to face with Jungkook. He’s sitting on the edge of the mattress, his chest bare, a towel slung around his waist, his hair still damp from the shower. 

There is a faint smile on his lips, the earplugs glowing faintly in the dim light.

“You’re getting my pillow all wet, starfish.”

The nickname makes Jimin’s lips part with a breath, and when Jungkook’s hand starts to pull back, Jimin reaches for it, fingers wrapping firmly around his wrist. The sudden movement startles them both, a flicker of surprise crossing Jungkook’s face, but Jimin doesn’t let go. Instead, he rolls onto his back and tugs Jungkook in – gentle first, then harder – until Jungkook is leaning over him, close enough that Jimin can feel the heat of his breath against his skin.

Jungkook swallows, his throat working, his eyes wide. Jimin’s hand slips up to the nape of his neck, fingers brushing through damp hair before applying some pressure, urging him even closer. He’s a little annoyed at himself how blatantly needy he is, but the faint flush creeping into Jungkook’s cheeks makes it easier to bear.

For a heartbeat, they hover there—lips barely brushing, Jungkook exhaling hotly against his mouth, and then, finally, the space between them closes. 

The kiss starts slow, hesitant, the careful press of lips as if they’re testing something fragile. But it deepens bit by bit, warmth unfurling through Jimin until he feels it all the way to his fingertips and between his legs. Jungkook tastes just as he remembers—of sea and heat, though less of blood this time, and that’s okay.

Jimin tilts his head, deepening the kiss, his hand slipping from Jungkook’s nape down his arm until his fingers catch at his wrist again. He guides it lower, pressing Jungkook’s hand flat against his chest.

Jungkook immediately understands, his palm smoothing over Jimin’s skin, fingertips tracing the line of his collarbone. Jimin exhales into the kiss when Jungkook’s thumb circles his nipple once before drifting lower.

The touch skims across his ribs, down to the flat of his stomach, and Jimin feels his muscles clench beneath it, heat sparking through his body, his cock throbbing with need, wetness already spreading between his cheeks. 

His body aches for this—wants this so much he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

His hips jerk when Jungkook’s fingers curl firmly around his cock, a soft moan spilling out before he can hold it back. Heat rushes under his skin, his legs falling open, toes curling as Jungkook strokes him in a slow rhythm.

Their lips part and Jungkook presses his forehead against Jimin’s, his breath hot and ragged, his own erection, covered by the towel, grinding against Jimin’s thigh in broken rolls of hips. The display of need makes Jimin shiver, makes the heat coil inside him tighter, turning hotter with every drag of Jungkook’s hand.

When Jungkook leans in again, the kiss is hungrier, clumsier, broken by the sounds spilling from Jimin’s throat, and Jungkook swallows every one of them, his pace quickening as though he wants to hear more.

The pressure inside Jimin builds so fast it feels like his body is going to break. It’s hard to breathe. He tears his mouth away, dragging in air, his head tipping back, throat bared.

“Don’t stop,” he gasps, voice breaking. “Don’t stop, don’t stop—”

Jungkook groans low against his neck, the sound vibrating against Jimin’s skin. Jimin’s hands fly up to clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into Jungkook’s skin to anchor him as he loses control over his body. His eyes snap open, vision blurring, lips parted in a soundless cry—and then he shatters.

It rips through him in a blinding rush that leaves him gasping, shuddering as his hips buck helplessly into Jungkook’s fist, pulse after pulse spilling over his stomach. Every nerve feels alive, every muscle trembling, his body shaking with how good it feels. 

Jungkook strokes him through it, slower now, coaxing every last tremor, every last wave of pleasure out of him. His forehead presses to Jimin’s temple, his breath rough in his ear.

Jimin trembles, his body slackening when he comes down from it, trying to catch his breath. He feels Jungkook’s hand finally ease, sliding to caress the inside of his thigh, warm and grounding. When Jimin blinks his eyes open again, Jungkook is watching him, lips red and parted, his breathing quick.  

That’s when Jimin becomes aware again of the insistent pressure against his leg. 

His head is still buzzing, his body still humming, when he gently pushes Jungkook off, and rolls over, pressing his chest into the mattress while arching his back so his ass is high in the air. He feels a foreign rush at the act of baring himself so completely, and he knows exactly what Jungkook sees like this, the messy wetness sliding down his thighs already.

When Jimin glances over his shoulder, Jungkook is frozen—gaze dark, chest rising and falling, the outline of his cock straining against the towel. Their eyes meet, the air loaded between them. Jimin’s tongue flicks out, wetting his lips.

“Come on,” he whispers, the words sounding more like a plea than he means them to.

The sound that breaks from Jungkook is low and rough, half groan, half growl. The towel slips loose, revealing his flushed cock as he shuffles closer, his hands skimming Jimin’s hips, thumbs rubbing circles into his skin. Then he leans in, his breath hot against the small of Jimin’s back, then trailing lower, over the swell of his ass.

Jimin stiffens, his pulse stuttering when Jungkook parts him open.

“What are y–”

The first brush of Jungkook’s tongue cuts him off. A sharp gasp rips from his throat as heat sparks low in his belly.

No human has ever touched him like this before.

His vision blurs as the tip of Jungkook’s tongue flicks over his rim, before circling deeper.

“Oh—”

Jungkook pulls his cheeks wider, pushing his tongue inside. Every muscle in Jimin’s body pulls tight with the sensation, pleasure racing up his spine. He presses his face into the pillow, panting, fingers clawing at the fabric for something to hold on to.

It’s pure overwhelming bliss. 

He didn’t know a tongue could reach that deep. Every flick, every circle makes him twitch and writhe, his hole clenching helplessly. The noises spilling from his throat are desperate, too honest—but he can’t stop them.

And then he almost chokes on his own breath when Jungkook slides in a finger alongside his tongue. A whimper tears from his throat, his cock jerking, leaking precum into the sheets. It has him rolling his hips back shamelessly, chasing it, wanting more.

A second finger follows, and the sound that rips from Jimin is more a sob than anything else. Jungkook works him open with a slow rhythm, steady thrusts, until Jimin feels wound up so tight, he thinks he’ll go insane.

“Jungkook—” His voice cracks when those fingers graze that spot inside him that makes his vision flash white. He buries his face in the pillow, moaning into the fabric.

“I’m—” He pants, voice shaking. “I—”

“Talk to me.” Jungkook’s voice is rough behind him. “What do you need?”

Another finger slides in, stretching him wider, and Jimin sobs against the pillow. He can’t think, can barely breathe. His hips roll, desperate, needy.

“Fuck—just do it—” He manages, the words coming out slurred.

Jungkook chuckles breathlessly. “Do what?” 

Jimin’s pulse hammers, hot and wild. A snarl of frustration escapes him as he pushes up on his elbows, reaching back to shove Jungkook away. He twists around, glaring at his smug face, at his stupid wet lips and the slick covering his chin, and pushes against his shoulders, trying to force him down into the sheets.

But Jungkook only catches his wrists, strong fingers closing around them before tugging Jimin forward. Their chests collide, Jimin’s breath catching in surprise, and then Jungkook’s hand is at his jaw, angling his head up, stealing the fight from him with a kiss.

The slide of his tongue is messy, hot, and when Jimin tastes himself on it, a groan breaks loose from his chest. His resistance crumbles. His arms loop around Jungkook’s neck, and all he can do is sink into the kiss—sink into him.

There’s a loud rush in Jimin’s ears, mixing with the pounding of his pulse that he can feel in his cock too. 

He’s on his side, cheek pressed into the pillow, his breath coming short and shallow between sounds he’s never heard from himself before. 

Behind him, Jungkook’s front is flush against his back, their bodies locked together, every hard thrust rocking Jimin forward. One of Jungkook’s arms is looped under him, hand splayed over his chest, fingers tugging and rolling at his nipple, the other hand is holding his leg open, fingers digging into the soft of his thigh. 

It’s overwhelming, every drag sending sparks of heat through his belly, making his toes curl and his fingers twist desperately in the pillow. Jungkook’s mouth is pressed to his ear, muttering breathless words that send hot shivers down Jimin’s spine. 

“Look at you, falling apart—Fucking dripping for me—Taking me so well—”  

The pressure inside him builds and builds, and he can’t help himself when he starts pushing back, his ass meeting the slap of Jungkook’s thrusts.

“Fuck, feels so fucking good when you do that,” Jungkook groans.

There’s a need inside Jimin so desperate, so hot that he thinks he might burn alive from it. 

A small sound slips from him when Jungkook’s rhythm changes, slowing to something deeper, more a grind than a thrust. The grip on his leg loosens, then disappears, and Jimin, unable to hold it up by himself, lets it fall down, his thighs pressing together. The shift makes Jungkook’s cock inside him feel even bigger, and he shudders out a quiet moan at the new sensation.

That’s when something small drops into the sheets in front of him. 

He blinks at it, dazed, until the faint glow of anti-siren tech and the familiar shape of earplugs registers. 

His eyes go wide, and he whips his head around to look over his shoulder.

“What are you doing?” His voice cracks.

Jungkook’s cheeks are flushed, his gaze glassy, his ears completely bare.

“I want to hear you,” he breathes. “Without the filter.”

“But–”

Jimin gasps at the sensation of Jungkook pulling out, the sudden emptiness making him clench, slick pouring out. 

He barely has time to catch his breath before he’s pushed onto his back, blinking up at the ceiling as Jungkook climbs over him. Hands grip him under his knees, spreading his legs apart before Jungkook settles between them, taking hold of himself and dragging the tip of his cock through the slick mess between Jimin’s cheeks. 

“Jungkook, I–” Jimin’s voice breaks when Jungkook pushes back in, the stretch making his eyes roll back, his mouth falling open with a soundless cry.

“Be loud for me,” Jungkook whispers, leaning in until his lips graze Jimin’s cheek. “Please.” 

And Jimin can’t help but do as he’s told when Jungkook fucks back into him. His own voice startles him – wrecked and needy – and the way Jungkook’s cock twitches inside him makes his pulse pound harder.

Every thrust feels more intense now, like there’s nothing between them anymore. Jimin becomes overly aware of everything—his own moans, the slick drag inside him, the wet slap of skin against skin, Jungkook’s ragged breath catching on curses. His thighs shake, spread wide, his back arching as his hands fly up, clutching at the pillow above his head.

“Oh, fuck—Jungkook—” He sobs, his hips canting up helplessly into every thrust, and when Jungkook changes the angle, he drives in so deep it feels like he’s splitting Jimin open, filling every part of him. Jimin cries out, his own voice echoing back at him from the walls. 

“That’s it,” Jungkook groans, his voice wrecked just as much. “Don’t hold back.”

And Jimin doesn’t—because he can’t. He moans shamelessly, high and broken, gasping when Jungkook slams into him just right, his whole body clenching around the thick length stretching him open. Everything is drowned out by heat, every thrust dragging him closer to the edge until he’s sobbing with it, shaking.

“Jimin—”

Jungkook’s groans get louder too, tangling with Jimin’s own noises until it’s just a mess of sound—moans, cries, curses, the wet slap of skin. 

Jimin’s head goes light, his sight blurring, the coil in his belly tightening—and then it finally breaks.

His back arches as his orgasm rips through him. He cries out, spilling all over himself, his cock pulsing between them as every muscle locks down around Jungkook.

The sudden clamp makes Jungkook choke on a moan, his thrusts stuttering, hips grinding before he buries himself deep. Jimin feels him shake against him, hears the wrecked sound in his ear as heat spills wet inside him.

Then he’s floating away on his post orgasm wave, dizzy, limbs tingling. 

For a long moment, it’s just their ragged breathing and the frantic pounding of their hearts against each other’s chest. Jungkook’s weight is heavy on top of him, every shudder in his body echoing through Jimin’s own, his breath hot against Jimin’s damp neck. 

After a while, Jimin’s fingers, still curled weakly in the pillow above his head, loosen their hold and he brings them lower to slide them over Jungkook’s shoulders.

Their breathing slows little by little, heartbeats settling. And eventually, Jungkook shifts, lifting some of his weight. His grip on Jimin’s thighs eases, guiding his legs back down until his heels sink into the sheets.

Then he draws back, bracing himself on his forearms on either side of Jimin’s head, their eyes meeting. 

Jungkook’s face is flushed, strands of hair clinging to his forehead. His lips are swollen and parted, his eyes open in a way that makes him look almost unguarded. His gaze drifts over Jimin’s face before his hand comes up, fingers brushing through the damp strands of pink hair. He toys with one, twisting it around his finger, letting it slip loose again. A small absent gesture, gentle in a way that makes Jimin’s chest ache.

Jungkook doesn’t look at him for what he says next. 

“When you kill me one day,” he whispers, “promise me you’ll do it with a song.” He swallows, his throat working, before his eyes finally lift to Jimin’s. “I want to hear your song, the real version—at least once.”

Jimin stares at him.

When you kill me one day.

When. Not if.

His throat feels tight, his mouth dry. 

“I told you, I’m not going to kill you.”

“Promise me.”

“I said I’m not–”

“Can’t you at least promise me that much, starfish?” There is a small smile forming on Jungkook’s mouth, one that seems almost sad, something about it turning Jimin’s chest all heavy.

He reaches for Jungkook’s hand that’s still toying with his hair, wrapping his fingers around his wrist.

“I can’t,” he whispers. “For so long I thought your death was mine. Mine to claim. Like some prize I deserved.” His eyes flicker to the side, unable to hold Jungkook’s gaze. “But now, when I think about it, it’s not—it doesn’t feel like anything I want anymore. It rather feels like—” 

He trails off. 

It rather feels like something he’s terrified of. Like something sharp lodged between his ribs. 

Somewhere along the line, the life he thought was his to take became the life he couldn’t let go of.

Suddenly, a truth settles over him. Something he might have known all along but stubbornly refused to admit. The real reason he kept sparing Jungkook, the reason for every excuse—it wasn’t mercy. 

He simply never could have done it. 

He never could have killed Jungkook. 

He never could have killed his sea. 

Suddenly, his nape feels hot. 

“I never could’ve killed you.” When he looks up, Jungkook is watching him with parted lips, unblinking. “What I did to you, I can’t undo. What I took from you, I can’t give back. But—” Jimin takes a deep breath, his lungs suddenly too small. “I will do what I can from now on to give you peace. I’ll happily grant your wishes, but this one—” He reaches out, tracing the shell of Jungkook’s ear with his fingertip. “This I can’t give you.”

For a moment, Jungkook doesn’t move at all, just keeps staring at Jimin. Then, slowly, his expression softens. Without a word he slides his hand to the column of Jimin’s throat, fingers applying pressure under his chin to tilt his head back. Then he leans in, his lips brushing Jimin’s, before capturing them in a gentle kiss. 

9 months later…

The air is thick with summer heat, the surface of the lake glittering under the late afternoon sun, cicadas buzzing in the distance.

Jimin drifts lazily, tail swishing back and forth, while Jungkook sits on the dock they finally finished building last month, his legs dangling in the water, ears bare. He hasn’t worn his anti-siren earplugs in a while now, but the sight still catches Jimin off guard sometimes.

“You know,” Jungkook says, squinting out across the lake, “for someone who claims he wants to bring back order to this place, you don’t seem to be doing much ordering.” 

His hair has grown long enough that he has taken to tying it back into a ponytail, although the shorter strands at the bottom usually slip free throughout the day, leaving him with some kind of half-updo. Just like right now.

Jimin huffs, his own hair floating around his shoulders as he leans back before flicking his tail just enough to splash Jungkook’s legs, soaking his shorts in the process. Jungkook makes a displeased sound.

“I told you, I had a talk with them,” Jimin points out. “They know their place now.”

“Mm.” Jungkook kicks up a spray of water at Jimin in return, which Jimin obviously ignores. “You sure about that?”

Jimin narrows his eyes. “You think the lake creatures don’t respect me?”

“I think the young ones are getting cheeky, and you can’t handle them anymore.”

Jimin lifts his chin. “They wouldn’t dare to–”

He’s cut short by a sudden splash, immediately followed by something cold and slick slapping across his cheek. He jerks back, sputtering, watching a giggling fish disappear beneath the surface, leaving only a ripple behind. 

“What the fuck,” he gasps, incredulous. Without a doubt another dare those little teenage gangs have come up with. The elders will hear about this!

Before he can dwell on it though, a noise reaches his ears, and it takes him a second to place it. Once he does, his head jerks up.

Jungkook is laughing.

Not the deep chuckle or the quiet huff Jimin is used to, but a full, unrestrained laugh. His nose scrunches as he leans forward where he’s sitting, the corners of his eyes creasing, and for a second Jimin sees him exactly like the boy in the picture above the fireplace. The one who laughed so brightly.

Something bursts in Jimin’s chest, opening it wide, flooding him with a dizzy mix of relief and want, of warmth so intense it takes his breath away. His pulse stumbles, his throat goes tight, and he feels like he might shatter from the force of it.

Mine.

His fingers twitch in the water, and before he knows it, he’s moving, surging forward, grabbing Jungkook’s wrist and yanking at it. Jungkook startles with a grunt, eyes going wide as he loses his balance, tipping over. He yelps, and a heartbeat later he crashes into the lake in front of Jimin, the surface exploding in a spray of water.

He splutters when he comes up again, his hair tie gone, hair plastered wet to his face.

“What the hell was that for?!” He gasps, while the creatures of the lake chatter in a chorus of surprise. 

‘The human is in the water!’

Jimin ignores them and wraps his arms around Jungkook’s waist instead, hauling him close. Their bodies collide, Jungkook’s soaked shirt clinging to his skin. He doesn’t give Jungkook time to react as he presses their mouths together, deep and hungry, pouring every part of this wild, uncontainable feeling inside his chest into the kiss. 

It doesn’t take long for Jungkook to melt into him, arms wrapping around Jimin’s shoulders, legs around his tail.

Jimin’s heart pounds so hard it hurts, he pulls back because he can’t breathe, something burning at the back of his throat. The words claw their way up, they want out, and he cups Jungkook’s cheek, trailing his thumb over the scar.

“Jungkook, I—” His throat tightens, breath stuttering, chest squeezing painfully. He has never felt this lost before. “I—”

Jungkook must see it all written across his face, because he catches Jimin’s trembling hand and brings it to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss into his palm.

“I know,” he murmurs, a soft smile tugging at his mouth before he leans in and presses his lips to the side of Jimin’s neck. “I know.”

When he pulls back, he guides Jimin’s hand to his own chest. Beneath the soaked fabric, his heart hammers frantically against Jimin’s palm, and Jimin watches as Jungkook swallows, his lips parting, closing, his gaze flickering away like he’s afraid of the words too. 

The fluttery, weightless feeling swells inside Jimin’s belly again, filling every corner of him. He tucks Jungkook closer, breathing in the scent of the sea, his mouth brushing his bare ear as he whispers. 

“I know.” 

~ END ~